By That Last Candle’s Light
by SeriousScribble
Summary: More than just Sirius died that night at the Ministry. Harry is left strangely empty, driven by one thought, a burning desire for revenge on the witch who killed his Godfather. But the further he goes, the more blurred everything gets. HPBella done right.
1. Prologue: ‘Tis the First Stone

**By That Last Candle's Light**

**Extended Summary:  
**_When the one candle that lights the room is extinguished, all that is left is darkness –_ More than just Sirius died that night at the Ministry. Harry is left strangely empty, driven by one thought only, a burning desire for revenge on the witch who killed his Godfather. But the further he goes, the more blurred everything gets, and slowly for both of them the borders between hate, violence and lust are becoming fluid in a world that is torn by war, and seemingly has lost its hope, the day its supposed saviour vanished.

Post-OotP, Dark!Harry, Harry/Bellatrix, mentioning of violence and torture. Oh, and I wouldn't mind reviews.

Well, this story is different than anything I've written before, not the least because it's written in first person. This first chapter is just a short prologue, that takes place within the last chapter of Book V. Update rates may vary, because I have an erratic schedule; and writing in general is not that fast for me since English isn't my first language. On that note, feel free to point out any mistakes you find; I'll try to correct them, it'll help to improve myself.

Thanks goes out to the members of the Dark Lord Potter Forums for their helpful comments. Story ahead, enjoy :)

* * *

Preamble:

**Messiah**

_I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.  
__Rev. 22:13_

A vast expanse of fluffy, snow-white clouds. On one, an ornate gate, made of black steel. Stairs are leading up to it; from below the clouds. Near the right post, a man, holding a golden key. Above a sign, forming an arch, the letters likewise made from steel: 'Faith brings freedom'. Behind the gate a golden desk, with a picture of a wise, ancient man with a long white beard set atop.

Enter Caiaphas.

_Caiaphas_ (Paces): Fools, one and all! Ye know nothing at all, nor consider that it is expedient for us, that one man should die for the people, and that the whole nation perish not. Was it not so? Yet there ye are, blind as a bat, seeing nothing, doing nothing, and letting the world tear asunder. For one man! He be brought in!

Enter Convict.

_Caiaphas_ (Behind the desk): Stiller -

_Convict_: I'm not Stiller!

_Caiaphas_ (Continues): - he be silent. He has been tried and convicted, for not being what he ought to, not doing what he had to, not dieing when he was supposed to. His offence is not fulfilling his purpose; his verdict eternal damnation. He be gone!

Exit Convict.

_Man with the key_: Nietzsche, at your service. I said: 'God is dead,' and I ask: Ye wage war? Ye fear your neighbour? So take away the border stones - so that ye have not neighbours. But ye wanted the war, and therefore only ye planted the stones. Was it not so?

Exeunt.

* * *

**By That Last Candle's Light**

**Prologue: 'Tis the First Stone**

It would be a fair guess to say that I lost myself some time after Sirius' death. I felt strange – but no, that wasn't quite right: I felt nothing, and _that_ was strange. No grief, when I thought about Sirius, no happiness when I thought about my friends. Nothing. All the pain I felt after Sirius' death, increasing by the minute, suddenly vanished after reaching a roaring crescendo in Dumbledore's office – just when it felt like it would tear me up from the inside. Maybe it did, who knows?

In any case, with it disappeared everything else and I was left apathetic. I don't know exactly how or why, that was just the way it was.

It would be hard to describe what I felt, or rather didn't feel. It was like wandering in thick fog, or roaming underwater or being packed in foam; every sensory input that came from without was strangely muted, surreal and oddly unimportant.

The fact that it was me, who had to kill Voldemort? Irrelevant. That Dumbledore had withheld the whole story, a story that really should have affected me so deeply, for years? No matter.

I was in lost my own world, and that world was within me and that world was empty. In hindsight, I'd say it would be unlikely that this was purely because of my Godfathers death, I barely knew that man, as much as I liked him. Perhaps it had always been there and Sirius' death served as a trigger of sorts; perhaps it was more about what he stood for: hope, family, strength. Maybe. Whatever.

All I can say is that he was more to me than what would be apparent, from what little place and short time in my life he had. Somehow, with his death, a major anchor that kept me in place was torn away, and I was drifting into the emptiness inside me, aimless, rudderless, hopeless.

The outer life I carried on like on auto-pilot, some basic routine in my head that kept me alive by doing the most rudimentary forms of living, like eating and sleeping, while the rest of my mind was lost in itself.

It wasn't until I had a talk with Hermione, some days after the incident at the Ministry, that this changed. Of course, it probably wasn't the way she intended it to change. Nevertheless, it was then I realised something, then when everything changed, sending me on the path on whose end I am now.

It was a Sunday morning and I was in the hospital wing. I had avoided going there, like I had avoided pretty much everyone since the day after the fight at the Ministry. It was only because I met Madam Pomfrey outside in a corridor, who told me that Hermione wanted to see me and effectively shoved me into the hospital wing, that I was there.

Most of the beds there were empty, and Madam Pomfrey went into her office at the other side of the room, so I was alone with Hermione, who was reading Sunday's _Prophet_, and Ron, who was snoring one bed farther away. It was fairly early, so that was only natural.

Somehow, I didn't think _he_ minded the stay in the Hospital Wing too much – he had as much sleep as he wanted, and, judging by the pile of sweets next to him, as much to eat as he wanted, too.

Ron could be that way.

Hermione looked up as I came in and planted myself in a chair next to her bed. She started talking, and then reading aloud from the _Prophet_, but I didn't really listen; I was busy staring at the wand across the room.

"Harry!"

The wand was white.

"Are you listening to anything I'm saying?"

White and empty.

"I know that you're hurting from Si- _him_ –"

I was hurting?

"– but you _have_ to realise that it wasn't you fault that he died!"

What? Why on earth would I think that Sirius' –

"He died to save you; I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted to see you like this. I know it is hard, but you have to stop!" She looked at me gently. "It isn't healthy if you keep it all bottled up. You didn't kill him, but Bellatrix Lestrange did, don't you see?"

Now that name set off a spark in me. For the first time in days, I felt something different than empty nothingness. A fire, deep and dark within me, filling me, filling the blankness, and I latched onto it like a man dying of thirst in the desert.

"Please try speaking about your guilty feelings. To me, to anyone. We're your friends, Harry. We want to help. When you're back at your home, you have time enough to grief properly –"

Who said anything about grieving? I didn't want to grieve (much less _properly_), what I wanted was – revenge. Yes. That was it. The moment the word popped in my mind, I knew that this was it. It ripped me out of my trance-like state, it gave me goal, and showed me a way. Suddenly, I knew once again where I was, where I wanted to go, and who I was supposed to be.

I wanted to show that bitch Bellatrix a world of pain, for what she had taken from me, and everything else could simply fuck off.

Including Hermione, who currently told me something about the Stages of Grief.

Now, that didn't mean that I hated my friends. Really. Only that Hermione was presently getting on my nerves, big time. Every now and then she had a habit of doing that, and even if I felt better than before – well, I _felt_, period – I wasn't quite in the mood.

"– and – Harry! Where're you going?" she said, while I was standing up.

"Uhm – to Hagrid," I said. "He's just come back, you know, and I promised I'd go down and say hello and tell him how you've been."

Which wasn't a lie. At least not the part about him coming back.

I'd seen him walking on the grounds while I was passing a window on the corridor that led to the Hospital Wing.

Hermione's expression softened. "Well, at least you're talking to _someone_. You'll see, it'll do you good. Say hello to him from me, will you?"

I nodded, and turned, away from her and the windows through which the first rays of the morning sun peeked. Madam Pomfrey was still in her office, so I was free to leave.

"And ask him how his – his _little_ friend is!"

I waved my hand to show I understood as I left the room. I had no intention of visiting Hagrid, much less speaking with him about my supposed _guilty feelings_, but Hermione didn't have to know _that_. Still, going outside seemed like good idea. I needed a quiet place and time to think, and there wasn't any such place in the castle. At least none that I knew of.

The corridor and the castle as a whole were silent. It was early, and a Sunday to boot, where most of the students slept in; especially since the exams, O.W.L.S. and N.E.W.T.S. where all done for. I, on the other hand, didn't sleep that well anymore. Blame it on the stress in my life.

I walked through the portal into the fresh air of the morning and crossed the grounds. I passed Hagrid's hut, thankfully without him noticing me, and went some good way off around the lake, finally settling onto a heavy trunk in a little clearing, behind some shrubs; hidden from the view by the sturdy old trees that seamed the outer ranges of the Forbidden Forest.

My thoughts went back to the day at the Ministry. There was the prophecy. But somehow, I couldn't muster the energy to care all that much. Even though it said that I had to kill Voldemort, if I didn't want to be killed myself, what by all means should have made him my Arch-Enemy; and not to forget that it was him who killed my parents, the hate and rage I felt for him was nothing compared to my feelings for Bellatrix.

Maybe it was because I never knew my parents, and Sirius had been the substitute for that, my only family, if you will (obviously the Dursley's didn't count); and I guess I had still hoped that one day I could leave those goddamn Dursleys to live with him – she had taken that away from me. She had killed family.

There weren't many things you could a hundred percent rely on if push came to shove; not even best friends; but you _always_ had family. They backed you without a second thought, despite whatever you may have done, and you did the same in return. Somewhere along the line, I'd realise that, mostly from observing others. And now, he was dead.

Someone would pay for that.

My thoughts moved to a specific event at the Ministry. Bellatrix running trough the Atrium. Myself behind the fountain. My _Cruciatus_. Bellatrix screaming for a short while, but getting up only moments later. Again and again. I'd had a chance to hurt her, and wasn't able to use it. My _Cruciatus_ hadn't worked properly. That simply wouldn't do in the future.

_You need to _mean_ them, Potter! You need to really want to cause pain – to enjoy it…_

Her words, meant to mock me – now it seemed like they were a real help, help of a kind I'd never get here or from anyone around me. Oh, I'd show her, the next time we met. And there _would_ be a next time. If she wasn't going to come to me, I damn well would be looking for her.

Voldemort could wait. He would hardly run away, and there wasn't anyone that would challenge me for getting a shot at him anyway.

_You need to really want to cause pain – righteous anger won't hurt me for long…_

So my anger then hadn't been enough? I wondered. Did I want to cause her pain?

The answer came to me again in that brilliant clarity, like it did back in the Hospital Wing; and almost surprising in its ultimacy. Yes. More than anything else. I wanted her to feel what I had felt, when Sirius fell through the Veil, wanted her to suffer, to see her on the ground, thrashing in endless pain, clawing at her own skin in an attempt to make it stop…

In one corner of my mind I noticed that I suddenly felt wood in my hand, Holly; my wand, clutched so tightly that my knuckles stood out white. It vibrated gently in my fist, the tip glowing in a pale, angry red, while my thoughts were racing.

Incapable to think straight, lost in my fantasy, a thousand voices yelling in my head that this was _right_ … wrong …

Through this haze there was a fat, black beetle crawling on a rock, less than a yard away. It shimmered in the dim sunlight that fell through the branches above … shimmering black, I remembered … Her long, black hair, shimmering softly in the flickering light of the torches in the hallway, such a contrast to her gaunt face…

And the voices went away, blissful silence. The only thing I saw was that beetle – her … Entranced, my wand went higher, until it aimed squarely at that beetle. _Bellatrix_ … screaming … writhing on the floor, her back arched in an unnatural, almost impossible way beneath me … dancing flames of a fire behind her, illuming the scene … burning, white-hot knives drilling into her body … _Crucio_!

The beetle writhed in silent spasms, it shivered and rolled onto its back, but it wasn't enough, no, not by a long shot. There was something flowing through me, a pull, or maybe a push – my wand vibrated again, but it felt good – comfortable – _right_ – the beetle flailed and ripped out its own leg, and then –

_Plop!_

I ended the curse and watched curiously the place where the beetle, up until now, had felt my bundled hate for Bellatrix.

All that was left was a wet, yellow-greenish stain on the rock.

Interesting.

I scratched my head. As it seemed, the beetle couldn't withstand the curse, and when that much magic was focussed on it, it simply burst. Just like that.

Oh well.

Anyway, the control Bellatrix spoke of, the one I hadn't had in the Ministry, was now there. I had held the curse for as long as I wished, and ended it when I wanted. The only question now was whether or not it was strong enough.

There was a sudden noise in the copse net to me, that jerked me from my thoughts, back into reality. Who was there? I looked around wildly, my heart beating fast – still from the rush before, or the fear now, I couldn't tell. There couldn't be anyone here – nobody was supposed to – to see me using – leaves rustled –

A dove flew into the sky. I let out a breath I hadn't realised I was holding. Just an animal. Still, my actions had been foolish. I began cursing mentally. How stupid could you get? Using an Unforgivable at the Hogwarts' Grounds, in broad daylight no less, directly under Albus Dumbledore's crooked nose!

If there was one thing the headmaster knew how to do, then it was being informed of _everything_ all the time, everything that happened in and around Hogwarts. He had to have dozens of little devices in his office that showed what magic was used and where. He probably way already underway.

Again, I turned my head and looked around – wasn't that a dry branch that snapped under a footfall? I had to get away from here.

As quickly as I could, I moved away from my little clearing, through the bushes and further away from the castle, alongside the lake. I ducked under braches and stumbled over roots until I felt safe, well, safer, at least; I had come far enough, so I simply stood and waited.

But no one came. My heartbeat calmed. The lake to my left lay still and glittering in the sun, which was high enough for it to be almost noon, somewhere in the forest behind me sang a bird, wind swept through the trees, sighing lightly. Everything was as always. The world went on.

Oddly, it was that realisation that brought the shock. Slowly, what I had done made its way into my mind. I had used an Unforgivable, and used it _successfully_!

I had done, what Voldemorts henchmen did, had used that bit of magic that had earned Bellatrix fourteen years in Azkaban. I wasn't better than her!

And the worst thing was, I didn't care.

I knew that, and it changed nothing. What was more, there was no punishment – I didn't feel tainted, because I had used what was 'Dark Magic', my wand felt as always; there was no chastising hand that came down from the heavens above, no lightning struck me down, no one appeared to take and snap my wand.

In short, I had used the darkest of Magic, and the world didn't care. It ignored me and simply spun on. I thought that I should have felt disgust, with myself and for what I had done, but yet again, there simply was – nothing.

And this shocked me to the core.

Hadn't I always learned, ever since I set my first step into the magical world, that it was the highest of crimes to use one of the three Unforgivables? Those, that fed off your darkest feelings, most forbidden desires, most terrible fantasies, not even to be whispered on the quiet, so perverse that it made you ill?

So why was there _nothing_?

– – – – – – – – –

It was past noon when I finally left the woods, still without answers, and still without a care that I just used a _Cruciatus_ curse successfully.

I walked through the grass in thoughts, barely noticing the students lying here and there in the hot sun, reading, talking; I passed them by, ignoring those that waved or called, seemingly eager to show me that they knew what happened and believed me, now.

So unimportant, now. The last days had brought with them a shift in focus, and students that did or did not believe me were at the very bottom of my what's-important-list.

I met the exception after I had passed the huge oak doors, separating the summer heat outside from the refreshing coolness inside the castle. As I was about to take the first step up the broad marble stairs leading from the Entrance Hall up into the other parts of the castle, Malfoy, Crabbe and Goyle appeared in the doorway to my left, that led down into the dungeons where the Slytherin Common Rooms were.

Both they and I stopped dead.

We were alone, only some few voices drifting into the Hall through the half open doors; distant yelling, laughter. Malfoy took a look around and seemed to realise that as well, then turned and came up to me.

"You're dead, Potter," he said quietly.

I regarded him dispassionately.

"You're going to pay." His voice was barely above a whisper. "Pay for what you did to my father."

Or maybe he was just like all the other students. What was it, that made him an exception from my too-unimportant-to-care-list?

I yawned. Had to be the cold castle air, after the heat outside.

Malfoy looked furious; advancing now, flanked by Crabbe and Goyle.

"You think you're such a big man, Potter. You just wait. I'll get you. You can't land my father in prison. I'll get you, just like my aunt got that blood-traitor cousin of yours –"

_There_ was the reason. I went from indifferent to boiling anger and hate in under a second. I had my wand drawn before he even got his fingers to his, and aimed it at his chest.

"Shut up!" I hissed.

There was only Malfoy now, no one else, I had only eyes for him. Once again hate cursed through my veins – _Cruci –_

"Potter!"

The voice cut through the Entrance Hall. Snape had appeared on the stairs that lad down to his office, and he regarded the scene maliciously. I never really saw Malfoys face, white as a sheet, his eyes fixed on the tip of my wand, again glowing red.

When I heard Snape's voice, the hate I had felt before for Malfoy paled to what I felt now. It almost reached the levels of that the great rush I felt whenever I thought about Bellatrix – thick, black hatred, welling up inside me –

"What are you doing, Potter?" said Snape, as coldly as ever, as he strode over to us with long steps.

I turned, mechanically, my wand still raised, now levelled at Snape.

He stared at me.

"Put that wand away at once," he said curtly.

Just one word … one …

"And that's ten points from Gryffin-"

He had turned his head while speaking, looking at the giant hour-glasses on the wall and sneered.

"Ah. I see there are no longer any points left to take away from –"

Hatred, deep within me. One word to express it all – _C_-

"I told you to lower your wand, _now_!"

His black eyes seemingly drilled holes into my head, then he recoiled, as if stung.

"For that alone, Potter, we'll have to –"

"Add some more?"

Another voice jerked me out of my haze. I hastily lowered my wand, as Professor McGonagall stumped up the front stairs, arriving at our little gathering, complete with bag and all. I took the chance while they were busy distributing points, and snuck past them, up the stairs, further into the castle; smiling coldly.

My time would come. _Bellatrix_. I addressed her in my thoughts directly, that burning rushing through me. Your days are numbered, and each of them will be filled with pain.

– – – – – – – – –

Across the castle, in one of the smaller towers, with windows overlooking the grounds and the Forbidden Forest, sat Albus Dumbledore in his round office and stared at his little apparatuses and trinkets thoughtfully.

As in a jigsaw puzzle, he took one silver-shining piece after another, turned it in his hand, and moved it to a specific place on his desk. He then gingerly stuck one into a second, requiring rangy fingers and his whole concentration.

With his left hand, he held both pieces together, and, balancing it on his right thump, he brought a tiny bolt in position, next to an equally small hole. The bolt went inside, and he delicately opened his left hand. The pieces stood.

He sighed, and gazed around the dozen or so of other metallic pieces, all more or less broken. Harry made nothing by half, you had to give it to him. He could only hope that his relationship with that boy could be fixed as easily as his trinkets, and that he would be alright, given time. He'd barely spoken, and avoided everyone the last days.

Before him, his newly, _easily_ fixed device – his Hogwarts detector for Dark Magic – gave a little shudder and fell apart once more, with a soft metallic _ping_.

* * *

**Global Disclaimer:  
**Nothing's mine but the ideas in my head that won't leave me alone until I write them down.


	2. The Dark at the End of the Tunnel

**A/N:  
**Well, here it is. Finally! I've never written anything like this, so maybe that's why it took me this long … I was stuck on the first half of the chapter for a very long time. On the bright side, the chapter is A) quite long, and B) I used that time to already start on the next chapter, so that should be out much faster than this one. Progress updates will be in my Bio-page.

Then, the order for posting chapters: first at DLP (DarklordPotter . net), in the WbA for feedback, then at PatronusCharm . net, then here. So go sign up at PC :) It's a very nice site; links in my Profile.

Also, because it was asked - I'll have no uber-evil Dumbledore. Dumbledore did **not** manipulate everything since the dawn of time here. He simply is human, with flaws, making mistakes, but since he is in a position of power, his mistakes have greater consequences. That is all, and anyway, Scrimgeour will partly fill that role.

Finally, I big thanks to Perspicacity, who read the first half and convinced me it wasn't complete crap … I was just about ready to scrap the whole things and start new from the scratch - for the third time. And to Andromalius, who looked over the second half.

About the chapter itself - it's the foundation I wanted to lay for this Harry. So once I've got that out of the way, the other chapters will be more ... hmm, I guess, normal. So if you don't like this one too much, there's a good chance you'd still like the others. They'll be more like the Prologue.

* * *

**By That Last Candle's Light **

**Chapter One: The Dark at the End of the Tunnel**

_It is common belief that the magic, or more specifically, the magical sensitivities of a witch or wizard, are tied to their emotions on a very basic level. Ebulliency results in magical fluctuations, in childhood more so then in adulthood, just like the emotional control waxes from childhood to adult life; the accidental magic attests to that._

_Only few theoreticians, however, have truly reasoned out that approach: for the logical consequence would be, that in turn a certain influencing of the emotional state through the own magic should be inherently possible, though no case hereof is known. No substantial research has been done, and the only theoretic model, the Emotion/Magic-Feedback-Loop hypothesis by the Egyptian Zanin S. Rash …_

_**Magic Today, 7/1996**_

More than three silhouettes moved behind the curtains of the brightly lit windows of 4, Privet Drive. Evidently, the inhabitants had a visitor, since their son was out, as usual for a Friday night.

On the first floor, all windows were dark, including the one to the smallest room; even though the short summer night had already begun to fall. The heat of day still lingered, and grasshoppers were chirping in the few places where the grass in the gardens was longer than the perfect one inch standard-ornamental-lawn-cut. The voice of a news presenter drifted over from a few houses down the road, otherwise all was silent.

Moths circled around the lamps, which had come on alongside the street, and from the nearest, a streak of light fell through the dark window still bearing traces of torn-out bars onto the desk below, inside the room.

On the desk, at least two weeks worth of newspapers were piled up, most of them unread. Some headlines and snippets of the lead stories were visible:

_Monday, June 1__st__, 1996 - The Daily Prophet_

**ATTACK OF THE CRUMPLE-HORNED SNORKACKS?**

… _says Mrs. Prittle, 55, Somerset. "Never seen one in my life. It's just another ploy to create a mass panic, I tell you. Wasn't that You-Know-Who-returning hogwash enough? Maybe that deluded Potter boy will believe Lovegood."_

_At the fringe of the meeting with German delegate von Schwarzenbeck, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said: "Obviously, … _

Here, another, quite rumpled paper overlapped the first. What was visible amounted to:

… _which is the highest overall-contentment in eighteen years. 4.3 percent believe in You-Know-Who's return, 38.6 percent in the mythical Staff of Merlin … When asked for a comment on the report, Minister for Magic Cornelius Fudge said: "It shows, that despite various attempts in undermining the society from certain parties, there is nothing … _;

ending where the upper right corner of a third paper peeked from under the next pile:

**Joke of the Day:** _A Crumple-Horned Snorkack, You-Know-Who and Harry Potter go into a pub. Each_ …

The next pile appeared to be all unread and the papers were stacked more neatly, sometimes directly on top of each other, leaving only a few articles visible:

**132 DIE AS HE WHO MUST NOT BE NAMED COLLAPES BRIDGE**

_In an …_

**HARRY POTTER: THE "CHOSEN ONE"?**

- _Reactions & Opinions_ -

-Mrs. Prittle, 56, Somerset: "Why, of course I've known that from the start. And all of you should be ashamed of yourselves! Calling our Harry Potter unstable and a liar and heaven knows what else. I say, that poor, poor boy! I have no doubt that he will defeat You-Know-Who. He is Harry Potter after all."

-Mr. …

**SCRIMGEOUR SUCCEEDS FUDGE**

_Rufus Scrimgeour, previously Head of the Auror office _- here, the paper was folded -_ with Harry Potter," he elaborated on further inquiry. "The Ministry as a whole as well as I myself are looking forward to working together with him, to ensure the continued safety of our upstanding wizards and witches."_

"_It feels reassuring that the Ministry is doing something against this new, sudden threat," says Mr. Abercrombie, 43, Ayrshire. "Together with Harry Potter, they can …_

**GIANTS DEVASTING SOMERSET**

Only parts of this one were visible, the rest was hidden in shadows:

…"_Where was Harry Potter when those things attacked my house?" asks Mrs. Prittle, 56, one of the victims of the rampage. "It's his duty, isn't it? I mean, he defeated the Dark Lord before …_ ;

before the last three papers came, perched on the corner of the table:

**HARRY POTTER WILL SAVE US ALL**

**HEAD OF LAW ENFORCEMENT DEAD: IS ANYONE SAFE?**

**WHEN WILL HARRY POTTER ACT?**

_Despite statements issued by the new Scrimgeour-administration about working together with Harry Potter on a secret long-term plan to defeat He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for good (as unveiled in a Daily Prophet-exclusive: Harry Potter will save us all), we cannot help but hope that the end of the terror will come soon._

_In the name of every witch and wizard across the country fearing for their life, we say: Mr. Potter, help us now! How much …_

The final one ended on a huge and currently empty cage set atop on all the papers. This end of the desk was near the darkest corner of the room, where the small bed stood; the light from the outside not extending as far as there.

Noises drifted up from below, a series of heavy bangs. Suddenly a scream tore apart the still of the night. And the darkness flashed bright green.

_**Two weeks earlier…**_

They said goodbye, all of them. They were all there, except the obvious person, to see me off. Did they think I was in the need of that? _Was_ I in the need of that?

At any rate, they all told me they would come and get me.

"Soon," said Ron.

"Really soon," said Hermione.

Somehow, it sounded apologetic to me.

"We promise."

But maybe it made them feel a little better about themselves.

Other than that, everything was as always, as I went with my dear relatives to Uncle Vernon's car. He still had the habit of changing between white and red in his face (Moody's work), my aunt still sniffed at everyone, and Dudley was still fat.

So when at the same time everything indeed felt different, I had to be the one who had changed. And that was fine with me.

– – – – – – – – –

Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground, stretching from here to the horizon, without a single bush or tree. Fumes here and there spiralling into the sky from within the earth. The sky a dark red above, illuming the plain. It looked like something that could have come straight out of the apocalypse.

I was there and I was two. I was One, a weak, pale-white incarnation, some way off, looking at me, Two, dark and substantial, and somehow more than One; stronger, greater.

Another pillar of fumes burst into the sky next to Two, igniting itself at once as it came into contact with air. Suddenly, I saw myself torturing Bellatrix, _nothing special, just my Cruciatus, which worked marvellous, by the way._ _Ah, how I relished in her screams_, it was so completely sickening. How could one human being happily inflict that kind of torture on another one?

_I felt the heat from the pillar of fire on my skin_, flickering _mysteriously_ behind _my Bellatrix_, I turned away, weeping for my lost innocence, and felt that rush again. _It felt, good, right_ and so completely wrong. I watched the wastelands behind me and watched as Bellatrix trashed around, in front of my feet, _sounds nice, don't you think? Bellatrix at my feet, the Great Warrior beaten, _beaten to death by me. What had I done?

_Well, I'd done it. I -_

- woke up with a start. The room was shrouded in Saturday morning's grey twilight, smoothing whatever edges there were, letting objects blend into shadows, until everything became one. Whatever I had dreamt was slipping away from me like sand between fingers. The more you tried to grab and hold it, the faster it evaporated. Snippets, odd flashes. Blood-red. Soon, the only thing that was left was a certain restlessness I felt.

My fingers fumbled along the outlines of the bedside table to my left, before they found the smooth wood of my wand and closed around it. My heartbeat calmed. Soon, my eyelids began to droop, and I fell asleep once more.

– – – – – – – – –

I woke up to my aunt's shrill nagging. Judging by my stomach and the sun shining through my window, it had to be almost noon. Obviously, no one had bothered to wake me for breakfast.

"Boy! Get down here!"

Doubtful, therefore, that she was calling me for lunch now. She just wasn't that considerate, it had to be something different. I didn't bother to reply, rather pushed the blankets back and stood up; walking downstairs as I was, in boxers, humming on the way.

I found them in the kitchen.

"_Will_ you put some clothes on!" bellowed Uncle Vernon as a welcome, while Aunt Petunia was frantically peering through the windows to see whether or not Mrs. Number Seven was doing the same and thus able to spot me in my not quite clothed state. Sadly, I wasn't that lucky.

"I won't stand for having you running around the house naked in the afternoon like some jobless slob!"

I pulled a chair out and seated myself.

"What was it you wanted?" I said as an answer.

This was a good way to see how important whatever it was, was. Since Uncle Vernon couldn't process more than one thing at a time, he had to disregard one of them. The words had barely left my mouth, when he jumped onto them like Dudley on something to eat. _More_ important, then.

"Yes." His beefy hands grabbed two letters I hadn't noticed until now, lying on the kitchen table, next to a plate. The sender of the first one, topmost, seemed to be Marge Dursley. I knew the handwriting. Regrettably.

"Petunia and I got mail, boy."

"Oh," I said. "Well, good for you. Although, I thought that was quite common."

"Don't be ridiculous," snapped Aunt Petunia. "It's a letter from one of - of _your kind_."

"Now why would one of them bother writing you?" I wondered while thinking back to last summer with that legendary moment when the kitchen was flooded with one post owl and letter after another, coming out of the kitchen fireplace. In hindsight it was quite amusing. Uncle Vernon's moustache had long since grown back, but still.

"It says your Godfather is dead, boy."

I could almost hear the switch being toggled inside me, as everything went back into place, to how it should be. What had been up with me until now? I went downstairs _humming_? What the hell?

Uncle Vernon had lowered himself to my height. "Says he got himself killed while fighting one of your abnormal friends - just like your parents. Didn't know what was good for him."

Vernon seemingly didn't notice the sudden shift in atmosphere.

"I say, good riddance. One less freak makes the world a better place. Don't expect us to coddle you now, boy. That Double-door said something about space and support. Well, forget it."

"And he even had the gall to address the letter with my given name," sniffed Aunt Petunia. "As if we were friends! Just because my freak of a sister went to his school -"

It spread, the feeling - the warm wood in my hand, strange - had I taken my wand down with me? I couldn't remember. And again restless, itching to do - something. I could do it. Right here. Right now. There was no need to listen to my relatives' ranting. I could - shut them up. Yes, I could do that. Just a tiny bit. No one badmouthed Sirius, after all. I knew how it would feel - could nearly taste the magic I'd use - _Do it._

"… boy! Boy!"

I shook my head to get the voices to leave me alone. I was getting a headache. Why wouldn't they shut up? Some were urging me on, but suddenly something shied away. _Magic should be used to do good. Do it! They don't know any better. DO IT! Do - no - at once - never - _I pressed my hands over my ears, but they didn't become quieter. Why? Everything was so muddled now …

"BOY!"

"What?"

That beautiful clearness from days before was gone, I felt like I was being pulled into two different directions at the same time. Was that what I wanted? _Yes - No_ What did I want? _You - don't …_

I shook my head again, in vain. The headache got worse.

"Stop it!" Uncle Vernon roared, towering over me, while he tried to grab my wand. He was colouring again, fast. "Put that … _thing_ away! I won't have it! Not in my home! Not under my roof! How dare you -"

_Now - never._

"Vernon!" hissed Aunt Petunia, tugging at his sleeve and pointing in turns at the kitchen window and my semi-naked form. "Vernon, Mrs. Polkiss!"

His hand came in contact with the wand, there was a small flash, and he let out a yelp. Only then I realised that the tip of my wand was still flickering red, and that there was a burn hole in Uncle Vernon's shirt.

_Yes._

Aunt Petunia screamed.

"_Vernon!_ Oh, Vernon, what happened, are you hurt?"

"It's my hand - that bloody boy's _you know what_ - if I get him - "

_More, more - not._

I stood and watched, as he jumped around the kitchen, knocking over a chair, which made him stumble against the table. His elbow pushed the lone plate off the board, sending it crashing to the floor tiles; the porcelain broke, while the voice of my aunt reached new heights, shaking me out of my stupor.

"AHHH - Bloody Hell!"

"Vernon -!"

"It's all his fault -"

Uncle Vernon continued swearing loudly and was holding his hand, and throughout the whole commotion, the doorbell sounded. Aunt Petunia shot me a venomous look, before she went to answer the door. My uncle was now busy holding his hand under a stream of cold water in the kitchen sink while simultaneously trying to rub his shin, so I grabbed the letter and went upstairs, still a bit dazed, and still with a war raging in my head.

I lowered myself onto the unmade bed, and started pondering Dumbledore's letter, to distract myself from clamour in my mind. It worked, after some time.

_Dearest Petunia,_

_with deep sadness …_

I was left free to idly wonder about the wise old man. Was he truly that blind?

… _was murdered. He and your charge were quite close …_

It seemed strange, somehow - the great Albus Dumbledore, brilliant by any standard, yet in this one instance unable to see things as they were.

… _know you had your differences in the past, but in the light of the recent events, I'm hoping you can work past …_

I doubted that he actually refused to see what was there - it was more that he was literally unable to. Like with the blind spot in the eye, he could watch, but not see. Not see that I truly and wholeheartedly hated my relatives, for everything they had done, every cruel word, every belittlement, every lonely night a five-year old spent crying himself to sleep in a dark cupboard, asking why he could not be loved. Not see that they despised me and whished I'd never been there, never born, never lived.

… _needs your support to get through this horrible ordeal …_

He always saw the potential in men, always expected the very best they could be: so very Dumbledore to trust my relatives that they would take care of me, because _he_ had asked them for that favour, because I was family, because I was the last link my aunt had to her sister.

… _give him space, if he wants it, but be there when he needs it …_

Always ready to forgive and offer a new chance, always ready to believe that people wanted to change for the better. And maybe, maybe he even thought that I was alike.

I realised that all of a sudden, and with it all its implications. Dumbledore could not change what he was, just as I would not. He simply _could_ never give up his innermost beliefs, and so would never stand for me going after Bellatrix instead of Voldemort, with the sole intention of making her hurt, getting my revenge.

And in turn, I _would_ not give up the one thing that kept me going after Sirius' death, and so could not follow him any longer. The split was unavoidable, our ways would part, maybe sooner, maybe later, but part they would.

Choices and consequences. It was a certain, foregone conclusion. Neither was changing, and thus the outcome was set, even if he didn't know it yet.

Sad for him, maybe, but that was the way of the world.

– – – – – – – – –

_Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground … and for the second time, I was standing on the apocalyptic plain under the bleeding sky, watching me torturing Bellatrix. _No greater feeling there be, _no deed more abhorrent committed. I faltered … what had I done?_

Well, I'd done it. I smiled happily. _Suddenly, the scene changed. Bellatrix was gone. I was looking up to myself, eyes wide,_ torturing myself for I had dared to speak out against me, to stand in my way. _Pain. Unimagined pain. Burning through me, setting my insides on fire. A scream tore itself from my lips,_ I listened with rapt attention. Crucio! Crucio! No one would stand in my way! Not even I. Not. Even. I. -

- started up and heard a scream. I looked around wildly, only to realise that it was my own voice that rang in my ears. Still panting, I tried to calm myself, get my fast beating heart to slow down. The subsequent silence in the room was oppressive and deafening. I heard it humming in my ears, a choral of voices yelling on top of their lungs, while at the same time so low that I only could inkle it on the fringe of my consciousness; unable to make out any details.

My right hand gripped the wand tighter. I could've sworn that the wood was warmer than usual but either way, it soothed my frayed nerves, and slowly, I slipped back into sleep.

– – – – – – – – –

The days following the incident with the letter passed slowly, and after a while, one seemed to somehow slip into the next in one continuous passage of time. It was like walking through an endless tunnel, deserted and alone, every step the same as the one before and the one after, no difference, no beginning and no end.

I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, as so very often these days. The dreams continued to wake me up, in odd intervals, meaning I sometimes slept during day and was awake a night; my sleep-wake rhythm completely destroyed, leaving me tired and moody.

Not exactly the best conditions to deal with my relatives, who were quite happy to have found something to put me down with yet again; and used the information courtesy of Dumbledore to their hearts content, and in a way he never imagined, whenever they spotted me. Just another mistake on Dumbledore's part, who cared, really. But it was another reason to not leave my room, since I now avoided confrontations with anyone.

Things were not … right.

After my realisation that my path would lead me to an eventual confrontation with Dumbledore, I hadn't had peaceful minute. The voices were back full force, and together with the lack of real sleep, it made my headache worse than ever. I wondered if I was slowly losing my mind, and then asked myself if any person would ask themselves that question in the first place, if they were still truly sane.

A myriad of voices, each trying to yell louder than the next, about what I ought to feel. Regret - satisfaction for what I had done, and what would happen if I continued on my way. Shame - indifference, for falling on a level supposedly as low as Voldemort. Sadness - hatred for what Bellatrix had done.

Maybe it was because I was cooped up at the Dursleys - when I was out, doing things, there simply was no time to think, no time to second guess everything. As it was, it began to wear me down, and slowly I started to crumble, hating my weakness, that made me ask questions. What I wanted to do. What the consequences were. My small clearing seemed so far away now …

"Leave me alone," I told the wall.

_Is that what you want? To become completely lost in your hate, with no way back? Another went that way before you …_

So?

I jumped up from the bed, and walked in long strides towards the desk where the _Daily Prophets_ were piled up, pictures and headlines staring at me reproachfully in the light of the desk lamp; suddenly feeling burning anger, and embracing it.

"What the hell should I want, then?" I snarled, slapping my hand on the papers. "To be working on a _secret long term plan to destroy Voldemort_, together with the Ministry? Sit here, waiting, for whatever other plan Dumbledore has? It's always a plan! I don't want it! It ends, right here!"

Dumbledore. The talk in his office.

Do you see the flaw in my brilliant plan now?

Everything a plan … brilliant plan … Dumbledore's plan, the Ministry's plan, the Fate's plan, a whole _life_, pre-plant already before it even began. And I felt angry, so angry. Everyone's plan involved me, but no one ever bothered to ask the _object_ of all their planning. Screw them. Screw them all, them and their wonderful plans. I owed them nothing. I'd done my share, prevented Voldemort's return twice, and no one had bothered then. I had my own plans now. What did I care?

_Because you do. You always do what is right … if the time should come when you have to make a choice between what is right and what is easy …_

Ha. I laughed bitterly.

"And what, pray tell, is 'right'? Who knows that? Dumbledore?"

An old man's mistake …

Dumbledore was just as human as any other wizard. I'd come to know that better than anyone else. He made mistakes, like any other man. He failed, and had flaws. No, Dumbledore was not the person to decide what was right, least of all for me. _I_ knew what I wanted, ever since that day at the Hogwarts' infirmary, yet made that it right? Now, that it slowly became serious, I hesitated. And I didn't know why.

I yearned for that simply clarity, back at the clearing. Everything was easy then. Just me and my magic. My fingers closed around the wand, somehow lying next to the stack of papers. I was itching to use it, even just for a short time. Maybe, if I just let go, everything would be easy again. I was breathing harder than usual. So much anger.

The door opened.

My aunt, of course. Strange. Usually, she avoided my room whenever possible. I turned, away from the desk. She took a look around, suspiciously.

"Who were you talking to? I heard you talking."

I stared at her.

"No one's here, Aunt Petunia," I said in a monotone. Talking? I hadn't been talking … or had I?

She flinched at my stare, and avoided my eyes.

"Yes, well … Marge is coming over, tomorrow …"

The spike of anger turned into furious rage, blinding out the rest of her words. Marge.

_Four year old Harry, crying, after being whacked by Marge with her walking stick, so as to stop him from running faster than Dudley …_

_Nine year old Harry, cold and alone and scared in the dark, after being chased up a tree by Ripper, while the Dursleys had stood and laughed, then left …_

_Thirteen year old Harry, finally pushed beyond the limit, as Marge slandered everything he'd held dear … and how good it had felt to let go … just to let go …_

"… so no funny business, do you hear, me, boy?"

I snapped out of - something, shaking, barely restraint. The voices were waging their war in my head, never leaving me alone, always there, always whispering, screaming in my mind. Why? Why couldn't they leave me alone?

_Just let it go …_

"Out."

A voice, cold and menacing. My own?

"You'll be c-civil …"

My aunt trailed off as she seemed to look at me, my eyes, maybe - paling; I enjoyed the look of terror creeping on her face. I'd put it there.

_And that's just the beginning …_

She turned and fled the room, the door shutting noisily behind her.

My aunts, the Ministry, the world, all the same, deserving nothing, nothing but the fair reward for everything they'd done. The scars on the back of my right hand had begun to itch again. Ah. Umbridge. Another debt unpaid. A nasty smile. At one point in the future, I'd get her as well.

_This isn't you. You're better than that._

The smile became cynic.

"Am I? _Who_ am I? If not that, then what?"

I rested my forehead against the window pane. It was cool, as it had begun to rain outside, sometime in the evening; finally, after weeks of drought, and the raindrops splashed against the window, running down in irregular trails, and just as sudden as the anger had come, it left, leaving me confused and empty.

My whisper echoed throughout the room, but no one answered.

"_Then who am I?"_

– – – – – – – – –

_Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground … another night, another dream, I was back once again, and once again Twice._ _Nothing had changed, the red sky as foreboding as ever, and beneath it, _Bellatrix was screaming until she could no more, poor Bella … _what had I done?_

Just what I'd do with myself. _Once again, Bellatrix vanished and I was in her stead, screaming in pain._ No one would stand in my way, no one! Not even I. Not. Even. I _… felt it give, slowly crumbling - and suddenly, I was back in the black corridor, the empty, barren stone walls gleaming in the light of torches. I was running, in utter silence, the blood soughing in my ears, my breathing heavy._

I saw her, she was there - running just a few paces in front of me, tall, somehow shrouded in darkness, despite the torchlight. But I knew it was her, could feel it, I'd get her, just a little bit faster - now, every moment - but why didn't the distance shrink -

_And I realised that someone was holding me back, I was running and not moving one inch along. I looked behind me - Lupin had me in his grip, Sirius had just fallen through the veil, and Bellatrix was getting away, she let out a mad cackle, resounding from the stone walls, throughout the corridor … NO!_

The torches flickered, I wouldn't let her, she wouldn't slip away, not again. I tore myself free - 'Harry, no!' cried Lupin, but I had already ripped my arm from Lupin's slackened grip.

So much anger. All in me, around me … hate. The unseen wind that blew through the empty corridor. Ice cold, coiling around me. Cold hatred. Filling me up, giving me purpose -

'SHE KILLED SIRIUS!' I bellowed. 'SHE KILLED HIM - I'LL KILL HER!'

I began catching up with her, she still laughed - oh, she wouldn't, once I was through with her. Just one step now - one -

_The scene shifted again._

_I was now running through an empty street. Somehow, I knew it was Privet Drive, even though there were only nameless buildings on either side, grey and indistinct._

_I was looking for Bellatrix._

_I was running through a cordon of people, people on either side of me, faces stony and silent. They were watching, always watching, mute and reproachful._

_Watching me looking for Bellatrix._

_I knew them - they were residents here, the Dursleys, Order Members, friends from school, teachers._

_And suddenly, I was them, watching myself. I saw myself passing by, from countless eyes at once._

_Passing by Petunia, me - freak. Worthless. Another reminder of her, my trice damned sister. Better than her, me. Always, the hatred. The source of everything bad that had happened to her, me. Why couldn't he, I have died as well?_

_Passing by Vernon, me - unnatural. Disturbing the natural order, threatening everything so carefully build. Disrupting his, my life. Should've dumped him, me at an orphanage. Nothing but a burden. Not worth the clothes on his, my back._

_Passing by Mrs. Number Seven, me - criminal. Ruffian. No place for him, me here, in a good neighbourhood like this._

_Passing by Dumbledore, me - baby. Green eyes staring up to him, me, from within the bundle of blankets. So innocent, but destined to be a warrior. So small, but the burden he'd, I'd be bearing, so great. Too great. If only he, I could ease the load. If only …_

_Passing by Mrs. Weasley, me - child. So small and lost, yet polite; as he, I asks about Platform Nine and Three-Quarters. And slowly slipping away, as she, I holds on desperately._

_Passing by Snape, me - father. He, I, James Potter. Constant reminder of his, my own weakness. Finally able to return everything done, finally he, I having the upper hand …_

_Passing by Mrs. Prittle, me - saviour. He, I dying, to deliver her, me from evil. And lead us not into temptation …_

_And I was myself and I was them all, and saw me, Criminal-father-child. Unnatural-saviour. Freak-baby. That was me, all that, layers on top of layers, but no true core, and they were watching me, always watching, forcing it upon me, and I was them and forcing it upon myself, oppressing, more, stronger, tighter, robbing me of air, of my sight, constraining me, overwhelming me, burying me …_

_The darkness closing in, the stony faces, a silent scream and one last glimpse at Bellatrix, laughing at the one to conquer her, who couldn't even conquer himself - no air - no sight - no - _

"NO!"

I woke, screaming from the top of my lungs, shivering, breathing heavily, and sweating, in my usual day clothes; my head snapping up from the desk, where I must've dozed off at one point after my aunt had left, yesterday evening, staring out into the night. I felt worn-out, not rested at all. And like usual, the dream was slipping away, beyond the reach of my memory, with no chance to recall what is was all about.

The post owl, that delivered the _Daily Prophet_, was hooting angrily. I paid the owl with five Knuts from my pocket, almost dropping them with shaking hands, and it took off into the early morning at once. It took me nearly ten minutes to calm down. The dreams had progressively gotten worse, and this was the worst one yet. Luckily, the Dursleys were heavy sleepers.

I picked up the paper. There was no actual reason why I still bothered with the _Prophet_ - just that I was too lazy to cancel the subscription, and had enough money anyway.

It was rubbish, of course; however, it was also an exact mirror of the state of the wizarding world. People, that not even a month ago had proclaimed me a liar and mentally unstable and who knows what else, said now the exact opposite, came slowly crawling back, as they knew or thought to know that they'd need me.

Suddenly, after being The Boy Who Lied, I was now, once again, The Boy Who Lived. People did a complete turnaround, and it didn't even _bother_ them. For that was what they always did, trimming their sails to the wind, in regards to me, to the Ministry, to Voldemort; not minding it at all.

I had no intention to fight for people like that. The last year had left me disillusioned in that regard. If it was only about them, I'd be content to simply sit back and relax, watching as they drove their world into the ground, running headlong into their own destruction; self-made, self-invoked, because they were content to looked away, preferred to bury their head into the sand, rather lied to themselves than facing the truth, until it was too late.

No, if it was only that, I'd just need to find a good place to observe, some popcorn, and could enjoy the fireworks.

The question was whether or not I wanted to fight for myself. I wanted to let it all go, wanted to follow my own plans, wanted to finally get on with the one thing that had driven me since Sirius' death, even if it had taken me some time to realise it - but then the usual reaction came, making me pound my head against the wall.

Damned hesitation. Damned doubts. Damned questions.

– – – – – – – – –

After finally being driven out of the house by Aunt Petunia, who was busy cleaning and hoovering the house for Marge's arrival, even the most unlikely places like behind cupboards or on top of them, I went outside. I seated myself on the grass, next to one of Aunt Petunia's rhododendron in the far corner of the garden, where the sun had already dried the ground. A blackbird was sitting in the fir next to Uncle Vernon's shed, singing happily.

I threw a stone into the fir, and after an indignant chirp, there was silence. Finally.

It wasn't as if I hadn't enough sound in my head already, without some bird adding to it. Also, it was too damn cheerful. There was a rustle from the fence, and then something plopped down beside me.

A neon green shock of hair appeared in midair, then the rest of the body. Tonks folded the Invisibility Cloak, and put it in her lap, shaking her head.

"Whatever did that fine bird to incur Harry Potter's ire?"

I growled. Couldn't I get any time alone?

"The same thing this one is doing."

"Why, thank you Harry. Although you're a bit late, I already have a date for tonight. But if it doesn't work out, I'll save you the next, hmm?"

My irritation grew by the minute. "Shut it, Tonks. Just leave me alone."

I really, _really_ wasn't in the mood. I was still tired, my headache as worse as ever, and Marge would be arriving soon. I was more than ready to find an outlet for all that, but not Tonks. I forced myself to be calm, and to my surprise, it worked.

"You might want to go," I told her. "Vernon's sister is coming by today, she's due any moment now."

Her eyes widened, and turned from their till-then intense blue colouring to a deep purple.

"That idiotic Muggle you blew up three years ago?"

My head whipped around and I stared at her incredulously.

"How the hell do _you_ know?"

"I was just in my second year in Auror training, Harry. Trainees get often assigned on simple field missions then. Escorting Obliviators so that they can do their job and containing the Muggles that may have seen something is typical. I was here. She's a nasty piece of work, that one. Was rude and loud and all. I'm just glad that Dung's here today, then, not me."

She yawned. "Can't wait until he arrives."

"Doesn't explain how you know it was her."

Tonks waved a hand airily.

"Oh, it was _the_ topic in the Ministry for almost a week or so. Harry Potter's aunt a floating balloon, as he used an impressive bit of Accidental Magic. You know, canteen-talk and what have you. And as she looked nothing like horsie back in the house - "

"Yes, yes, I see."

How very typical. I should've expected nothing less from the Ministry.

"Glad I could provide something to talk about, then. Obviously, everyone had to know, because it was Harry Potter, after all. Everyone has the right to know everything. There's nothing they don't know."

It wasn't really a question, so I was surprised that she spoke, after we'd been sitting there in silence for almost a quarter of an hour, she leant back against a fence post, and I trying to ignore her presence and hoping that Marge died in an messy train crash all the while.

"I'm sure there is."

She was looking me up and down, then straight into my face. Her eyes were now a familiar shade of green, I noticed absentmindedly.

"There is always something more than what people see, isn't it?"

I stared back.

"Is there more? I'm not so sure anymore, Tonks."

She stood up, gathering her (or rather, I suspected, Moody's) Invisibility Cloak.

"Then I'll hope for you that you'll find it, Harry. Whatever it is. Because anything is better than nothing. I know."

And with that she climbed over the fence and vanished on the other side, just as Uncle Vernon came up; driven by his obsession with the lawn. It _desperately_ needed to be mown. Apparently, he'd measured the grass with a ruler as usual, (he always got on all fours to do that looking complete ridiculous) and it was a quarter of an inch too long after the rain last night.

Well, how fucking terrible.

I shut out his ramblings, and while my uncle went back and forth with his lawnmower, I returned to the house. Just as I was passing the front gate, nearly stumbling over a pry bar Uncle Vernon had left there when he'd tried to repair the fence, a taxi pulled to a halt. Out stepped, as large as ever, Marge Dursley.

The taxi driver opened the door on the other side, and her large bulldog, Ripper, jumped out as well. He stared in disgust at the dog, which'd probably been slobbering all over the covers of the back seats. Not to mention the hairs.

As soon as Ripper was out of the car, he ran straight to the fence where I was standing, leaning easily against the gate. The dim-witted creature tried jumping at me, but with the fence in the eye, resorted to barking, drawing Aunt Marge's attention to me.

She looked at me disdainfully.

"You."

I, in turn, watched the driver. And the driver, finally, glared daggers at Ripper and Marge's back. Amusing.

"You can carry my bags into the house. I don't tolerate laziness." She'd noted my stance at the post, it seemed. The driver had finished unloading the baggage from the boot. I hadn't moved.

"Are you deaf?" snapped Aunt Marge.

"No," I said.

Her eyes narrowed. "Don't you be smart with me, boy!"

I studied her. She hadn't changed, really. She still resembled a female version of Uncle Vernon and still desperately needed to be introduced to the beautiful invention called a lady's shaver.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" she barked. "And quit staring at me! Do I have something in my face?"

"Well, since you're asking …" I said. "Yes. A moustache."

Aunt Marge stared at me open mouthed, before she began colouring, just like her brother. _This was not Tonks. No need to hold back. No need …_ Ripper seemingly had noted the development of the situation, and now began throwing himself against the gate that separated us, snarling loudly.

"Why, you little -"

I leaned forward slightly -

"Marge! _So_ good to see you!"

Aunt Petunia came hurrying quickly out of the house, and threw me a hasty glance. I didn't exactly know what to make of it - she had been doing that since she'd left my room yesterday. She opened the gate, and went to stand in front of me, blocking my view of Aunt Marge. And just like that, I was forgotten. Even Ripper seemed to prefer running into the garden, and digging out Aunt Petunia's roses.

"Petunia," Aunt Marge shouted loud enough to be heard at the other end of the road. They hugged and kissed, and then Uncle Vernon came, and escorted her into the house. Aunt Petunia _looked_ at me again, and then went to the taxi driver, who was waiting impatiently next to his car.

She said something to him, and I saw a pound note changing hands. After that, he began to carry Aunt Marge's bags into the house.

"Come in," my aunt said stiffly. She opened her mouth, looking like she wanted to add something, but then brushed past me. Frowning, I followed.

– – – – – – – – –

When I came inside, Aunt Marge was already back in the hall

"Dudders!" she roared through the house, once the door was closed. "Where is my favourite neffy-poo?"

When no one came, she rounded on me.

"Go fetch my Dudders! His aunt wants to welcome him."

I rolled my eyes.

"_Dudders!_" I shouted up the stairs. "Marge wants you to welcome you her!"

_That_ put him into motion. I heard his steps stomping on the ceiling above me, and then his feet became visible on the topmost steps. Somehow, he never liked it when I called him the various names Aunt Petunia and Aunt Marge came up with.

I turned back and found Marge staring at me through narrowed eyes. "What?" I said.

"Don't you say 'what' to me, boy," boomed Marge. "You know that it's Aunt Marge to you. Vernon and Petunia told you often enough. If they're _still_ putting up with you, then show them some thankfulness for their kindness by following our rules!"

I stared at her, unblinkingly. "But you aren't my Aunt."

The look on her face turned ugly, and she opened her mouth to start on me, just as Dudley reached the end of the stairs. At once, she was over at him, pulling him into a tight hug, and planting a big, wet kiss on his cheek. Dudley shot me furious look, presumably because in front of Marge, he couldn't say anything about my usage of the hated pet names - if he wanted to get Marge's money, that is.

I went past them, up into my room.

– – – – – – – – –

We met again for dinner. Dudley was excused, for the whole night ("he's at his friends, the little darling, they're having a game night"), but I, of course, had to be there. At least Aunt Marge had put her foot down and banished Ripper to the kitchen, where his slobbering mess could be cleaned without re-carpeting the floor.

Once again, we'd made it through the main course, up to dessert. I could spot the irony of fate coming from miles away. Up to now, Marge had entertained us with a detailed account on how one of Ripper's pups had won in a dog show, for one thing or another. Like last time, she'd drunk liberal amounts of wine, getting pissed rapidly. And like last time, the table talk ran out, turning her attention back to her favourite subject; me.

"So, Vernon," Marge declared, "I see you're still keeping _him_. Has he shown any signs of betterment, then? I believe you told me something about that institution, St. Brutus's, was it?"

_Unlike_ last time, I had no intention of putting up with it.

"I never was in St. Brutus," I declared in the same righteous tone, mimicking her. "That was just an elaborate lie on Uncle Vernon's part."

The following silence was interesting. The knife Aunt Petunia held dropped onto the platter with the remains of the beef Wellington, clattering loudly as she stared at me, wide-eyed. The refrigerator in the kitchen hummed. The grandfather clocked to my right ticked.

That was all.

_Tick._

Uncle Vernon began colouring, fast. His hand clutched the fork like he wanted to skewer me.

_Tock._

Aunt Marge eyes seemed to nearly pop out of her head. I felt like smiling. And then, off we went.

"You nasty little thing, you dare care call Vernon a liar when he was kind enough to take you in and put up with your behaviour ever since?"

She didn't believe me. I could almost hear Aunt Petunia sighing in relief. Well, we could remedy _that_.

"Actually, that was done for your benefit, because I -"

"Vernon!" interrupted Aunt Petunia shrilly. "Would you be a dear and carry the platter and the dishes into the kitchen, and bring in the sorbet?"

Uncle Vernon looked nearly apoplectic. Most interesting. He stood up jerkily, loaded everything onto the tray, forgetting the cutlery, and walked out of the room. Marge, however, was not to be distracted, this time.

"It seems to me like you still haven't learned your place, boy." She had lifted her cane, which she'd propped against her chair. "In fact, I think I -"

My Quidditch-reflexes were as up to par as ever. I caught her hand in midair, clamping down on her meaty wrist. Her strength was no match for the average male youth; just like Vernon's never was. Probably one reason why he'd never actually tried to beat the magic out of me, like he so often threatened to.

I held her arm, and stared at her. Our eyes locked. Her dark, evil eyes, looking at me, furious. A few heartbeats. Breath in, breath out. Two pictures layering over one another; past-five-year-old Harry, present-me; the same situations, radically different outcomes.

"_Don't._"

It came out as quiet hiss. The clock in the living room, cutting the silence in seconds. _Tick. _Furious whispers in my head. _Do it! Show her what you are, what you can do._ My grip on her wrist became stronger._ Tock._ The wand in my other hand, rising slowly … _Yes!_ It tore at me, tried to break free, the border so frail, paper-thin now; almost there, almost … The clinging of glass.

"M-Marge? Some … more?"

I turned my head. Aunt Petunia was tinkering with the bottle of wine, holding it with shaking hands, and giving me that look again. But this time, something was different. Clearer, somehow. And I realised it for what it was.

Fear.

And promptly, the war was back. _Fear? Is that what you want to inspire in others? To respect you, because they fear you? Yes - No …_ I shook my head and exhaled slowly, involuntary loosening my grip on Marge's hand. She yanked her wrist free and put her arm back down, saying nothing for now, just shooting me a nasty look.

"Yes - please, Petunia."

Aunt Petunia gave a strained smile and filled the glass once more, even though it was barely halfway empty. Marge drained it in one gulp. Vernon returned with the bowl with the sorbet, having missed the exchange entirely.

Aunt Petunia helped everyone to a serving, and we ate in tense silence - until Marge decided to speak.

"Vernon, how did he end up in St. Brutus anyway? I don't believe you ever told me."

Before I could interject, Uncle Vernon answered, giving me an evil look. Aunt Petunia looked at him, nervously.

"Oh, well, he was caught with his Godfather on a break-in - he was training him, you see. His Godfather was sent to prison, and he came into St. Brutus, because they told us he was much too young to go as well. Bah! Mollycoddling nonsense, if you ask me. People these days are simply too soft-hearted."

"Yes, yes," Marge nodded her agreement. "As I always said, you have to show them the bounds early on. The more severe the punishments, the easier they learn. This one here is a prime example. Why, back in my days …"

I was back in my tunnel, not realising much besides me, only the tunnel, which suddenly felt oppressive. I was breathing hard.

"… no, he couldn't. Luckily, he died just a few weeks ago. Like I say, one less criminal makes the world a better place. You remember him, Marge - he escaped three years ago, that Black fellow from the news."

It was growing inside me, my anger, snarling and snapping like a caged beast, waiting to be released. _Let it all go …_ "He was not a cri-"

"YES HE WAS," yelled Uncle Vernon, overriding my voice. "You killed him and that's that. There's nothing more, you hear me? Nothing!"

"I didn't kill him," I ground out. "Bellatrix did."

"You," Marge slurred, "are a nasty little liar. A ruffian, a criminal which should've been locked away a long time ago."

_Mrs. Number Seven, me - criminal. Ruffian. No place for him, me here, in a good neighbourhood like this …_

… _Criminal-father-child. Unnatural-saviour. Freak-baby._

The tunnel walls crumbling, closing in … and finally, I, it, broke free. The anger, the hate … coursing throughout me, filling me -

_There is always something more than what people see, isn't it?_

"No," I said, suddenly calm. "No, I'm not. I'm _more_. Much, much more. You'll see."

I rose to my feet. The wand in my hand, my fingers tracing lovingly over the polished wood.

"I'll show you, yes?"

Uncle Vernon had become chalk-white; I barely realised it.

"Boy! I demand that you put that _thing_ away! At once! I -"

I flicked my wand at him lazily.

"_Silencio._"

Marge stared at me, open mouthed.

"And that is barely the beginning," I whispered to her. Next to Uncle Vernon, Aunt Petunia whimpered. Marge was now standing as well, and slowly backing away.

"Ripper!" she called, and the bull-dog came running from the kitchens as once.

"Attack!" she commanded. "I'm going to call the police."

Ripper came chasing, but a strong bludgeoning hex caused a laceration on his head and sent him flying across the room.

"Ripper!" screeched Marge. "What did you do to him?" She advanced on me, a murderous expression on her face. "You dare touch …

Something shifted for a moment in my vision, as if everything moved over a tiny bit, and I could look behind … _dare speak his name? You dare speak his name with your unworthy … lips …_ And Marge's ugly form vanished, and in its place was another, tall; a pale face, framed with long tresses of black hair, so black; as black as the night, as black as the heart and the name, shimmering silkily in the flickering light. Mysterious violet eyes, blinking from beneath heavy lashes … a vision of cruel beauty; and all mine.

This was it. My heat beating in-sync with the clock, I heard it pounding in my ears.

_Thump._

I was over at her.

_Thump._

The wand in my hand, smooth and warm; so natural, so right.

_Thump._

An euphoric feeling, finally being able to use magic again, after two weeks of abstinence, glorious, wonderful. I felt the magic singing in me, and sang along, _Crucio … _and she on the carpet sang as well …

But then it shifted back, and I realised it was Marge … just Marge. What a disappointment. No match for me, she wasn't even worth the effort. She was lying there screaming, even though I had stopped the curse.

Infinite sadness. _You've shown her that she's no match for you. You've shown that you are stronger than a __**Muggle**__. Was that what you wanted? Are you satisfied now? Proud?_

_Yes - no - _

The anger subsided, and the war in my head seemed to reach a roaring crescendo over what I'd just done. I turned away from Marge, unable to watch her prone form in the carpet; and suddenly realised that the screams had come from my left, meaning, now from directly in front of me. I watched disbelievingly at what I saw.

Aunt Petunia was running towards me, the frying pan in her hand, swinging it wildly … frying pan …_ Harry ducking a heavy blow, aimed to his head, at the very last moment, while Dudley stands and laughs …_

My vision flashed red, droning out everything else. As if by instinct, I swished and flicked my wand. The frying was ripped from of her grasp. I sent it hurtling towards her. It connected with the left side of her face, and there where a few ugly cracks. Probably a broken jaw, at least. Good.

For a second time, the anger filled the emptiness inside me. The force of my blow had sent her tumbling to the ground, where she kneeled, crying, holding her broken jaw. I banished my aunt across the room, her head smashing against the corner of the table, before she was hurled through the window in a shower of shards of broken glass. She was out of the way for now.

In contrast to not-my-Aunt Marge. Is stared at her hatefully. I wasn't done with her, not by a long shot. Payback-time. Fifteen years were a long time.

She was trying to get back onto her feet, using the table as a crutch. I flicked my wand, and two of the knives from the table imbedded themselves in her hands, nailing them to the table she held onto. Marge wouldn't be going anywhere. She screamed again. Blood seeped from under her hands, and she passed out.

"_Wingardium Leviosa._"

I swished and flicked my wand once again, and levitated a chair under her.

"_Incarcerous invisus_," thin, translucent ropes shot from the tip of my wand, and bound her to the chair safely. I tipped my wand against my chin thoughtfully. What to do, what to do. Well, first she needed to be conscious.

"_Enervate!_"

The spell jerked her back into awareness. She was as bothersome as ever and started struggling against the robes that coiled around her, but the movement probably didn't agree with the knives protruding from her hand, as she stopped with a loud whimper.

"You won't come free until I let you," I told her absentmindedly. Instead of thanking me for that tip, she seemed to get even angrier. Evidently, one lesson in pain hadn't been good enough.

"What are you?" she spat, still struggling against the invisible bonds that constrained her.

I smiled, caressing the wood of my wand with my thumb, thinking about how to answer that question.

"Do you believe in God?"

She didn't respond, only looked around wildly. Ripper came running once again, and a kick sent him flying yowling. Damn, that felt good.

"There was this book with verses from the Bible; it was the only book the Dursleys ever gave me, you know. Back when I had nothing else, in the cupboard. Probably hoped that if I ever realised my abilities, I'd think of them as 'against the natural order' or something. But instead, I used to hope that what was written there would come true, that God would come … but now I know better."

I laughed lightly. "How stupid of me. The answer was there, all along. _'Behold, the Lord is coming to execute judgment upon all and to punish all that are against God among them, for all the evil they have done against him. And he will punish the sinners who are against God for all the evil they have said against him'_ … do you see?"

My voice was barely above a whisper. "_I'm_ your God, Marge."

"You're insane."

I scowled. "I don't think I like your tone, Marge. Actually, I don't like you, period. You've treated me worse than your dogs ever since we met, and now you'll be punished. Let's see …"

Ripper, that stupid dog, ran and jumped towards me yet _again_. I was rapidly losing my patience. I aimed and shouted: "_Reducto!_"

The curse hit him squarely at his head, in mid-jump. He was blasted backwards. With a squelch, a grey substance sloshed against the living-room cupboard, followed by a fountain of beautiful sparkling red, like the wine on the table. Ripper was now lying on Aunt Petunia's expensive carpet, twitching feebly, his strength waning, and produced more stains than ever, but then again, half of his head was missing. Stupid dog, as I said.

"NO! Ripper!" wailed Marge, fighting again against her bonds. "You killed my poor, dear Ripper!"

Indeed; I felt quite satisfied. Now, what to do about her … I spotted the cheese rasp on the table and had an interesting thought.

"Do you believe you can wash your hands clean, then, Marge? Those you used to beat me with that cane of yours?"

I summoned the cheese rasp, and studied her bonds. They held her in place, rendering her unable to move anything more than her head, I just needed to turn her hands around. I yanked both knives back out, and Marge screamed again. I pressed the back of her hands down onto the table, and plunged the knives back in, more in the front of her palm, in the webbing between the bones of her second and middle finger, so that they were mostly out of the way.

I started on her right hand, gripping the handle tightly and pressing down hard. The cheese rasp did its job wonderfully, the sharp steel tooth biting into her skin, then peeling strings of flesh away, leaving crimson trails in its wake. Marge had started crying now, and tried to move her hand away, but the knife wouldn't budge.

Once I'd reached the other end of her hand, I threw the layers of curled, white skin off the rasp, down onto the table. Funny, that … it looked almost like real cheese. I positioned the rasp once again on her hand, and dragged it across slowly once more; stripping skin and flesh away; time and time again.

Some time later, I surveyed my work. On the palms of her hand, there was now only raw flesh and strings of muscles, coated in red; white bones blinking here and there from beneath. Maybe I'd been a bit too overzealous. Then again, it was just as I'd envisioned; her hands washed clean with her own blood,. It'd made the last few turns quite slippery - the stainless steel of the cheese rasp was now indeed quite stained.

Marge was silent now, although she still cried; she'd been quite vocal before and screamed herself hoarse. She'd also stopped trying to break free.

"No, I don't think it works," I said to her. "You know, washing your hands clean."

I held my wand lightly to her wrists. "We'll have to try something else. _Diffindo!_"

A thin, red line appeared, but that was all. I scowled angrily. The spell wasn't strong enough. I desperately needed to know more spells, I realised. Meeting Bellatrix with _this_ would be simply embarrassing. For now, though, the old-fashioned way would have to do.

"_Accio butcher knife!"_

There was a commotion outside the living room, and for a moment, I thought I head the front door open and close, but then, Aunt Petunia's biggest knife came floating towards me. Maybe I could use at least a little bit of magic.

I levitated the knife above her right wrist, then banished it downwards. The edge cut neatly through the meat and the bones. And halfway though the wood of the table below her hand. Oops?

Marge was now screaming hoarsely from the top of her lungs, again; drowning out the thump, as her right hand hit the ground. The tears still leaking out of her eyes had long since left crusty traces on her cheeks.

"You won't touch me with your hand ever again, Marge," I said. "Now, as for the other one …"

But Marge let out an inhuman shriek, and with what seemed like a force born out of pure desperation, she ripped the still intact (well, mostly) left hand free from the knife that pinned it to the table; tearing completely trough the upper end of her palm.

With a whimper, she pressed the raw flesh of her hand onto the stump of her left arm, in an attempt to stop the heavy bleeding from the arteries; and started speaking, hoarsely.

"I don't know what power this is, but evidently Vernon and Petunia were right all along. You are … unnatural, a good-for-nothing freak. Would've been better for everyone involved if you'd died with your worthless parents. You should've -"

"Shut up!" I screamed. I vanished her clothes, and banished everything that still was on the table at her. Plates, bowls, glasses hitting her hard, opening a few lacerations. The knives and forks drilled themselves deeply into her flesh.

"Shut up, shut up."

The large knife Petunia had used to cut the beef ended up sticking more then five inches deep in her stomach. She coughed, but continued.

" - should've been drowned while Vernon and Petunia had the chance, just like those weak pups. Natural order -"

I backhanded her, but she wasn't to be deterred.

" - killed everyone. Your parents, your Godfather, your relatives, and now me …"

Why wouldn't that stupid bitch simply shut her worthless mouth? I pressed the tip of my wand against her check.

"_Reducto!_"

It tore off her entire lower jaw, sprinkling my hand with red. She was now coughing blood, growing weaker by the minute.

"This was the last time you slandered me or anyone. Now, I don't want to see you. I don't want _you_ to see me! Ever again."

The tip of my wand at her eyelid … "_Incendio!_"

The smell of burned flesh, sickly sweet, she began to gurgle and struggle, futilely. A distasteful popping noise and a clear liquid trickled down from her burst and burnt eyeball. The struggling ceased, she finally passed out once more, from the pain and blood loss. I guessed it'd be the last time. Just as I moved on to the second eye, there was another sound behind me.

I turned, and froze. Standing in front of me was Uncle Vernon, with a crudely sawn-off shot-gun. I never even realised that he'd left the room, but I recognised the gun. Hagrid had once completely bent the barrel of it, before my first year at Hogwarts. I never knew Uncle Vernon had kept it, but evidently, he had, and now simply cut off the bent part.

He levelled the gun at me. Once again, the time seemed to break down into seconds; advancing stepwise.

_Tick._

Uncle Vernon, the shotgun and me.

_Tock._

A choice to make: two paths diverging. Only one leading to Bellatrix.

_Tick._

It wasn't a choice, really. Uncle Vernon standing between me and her: no one would stand in my way. I lifted my wand.

_Tock._

His finger bending around the trigger. The first syllables of _the_ curse on my lips. It was self-defence, yes? Silly me. Of course it was. A glorious feeling … _Avada Kedavra!_ The beautiful green …

… and the world returned, came crashing down on me, as the light fizzled out and died. Uncle Vernon roared (had my silencing charm worn off?) as the trigger met resistance, and he realised that he'd forgotten to take the safety catch off, rendering him unable to shoot. I was standing there, numbly; staring at my wand, unable to move. Panic began to set in.

"_Avada Kedavra!_" I cried, wildly, and yet again, it yielded results no better than my first attempt. The beam was narrow and flickered shortly, before it died; a pitiful attempt compared to what I'd seen Voldemort and the other Death Eaters use. I couldn't think. What could I do? Why didn't it work? Why …

"_Aha!_"

The triumphant bellow from my Uncle told me that he'd managed to move the latch away that blocked the trigger. I stared at him; wide-eyed, noticing the mad glint in his eyes. The barrel pointed straight at me.

"Should've done this years ago," he said to no one in particular. "Yes, yes. Years ago."

Once again, he pulled the trigger back.

"_No!_"

This couldn't be real. I had yet to find Bellatrix … was my quest doomed to fail, before it even began? The bang of the gun expelling the contents of its barrels was deafening in the room.

"_NO!_"

I saw the triumphant look in the face of Uncle Vernon, and for a third time, the feeling spread, fuelled by everything this man had ever done to me; filling me up, but this time continued to flow, like never before, finally tearing the already frail border down completely. My head felt ready to explode. Someone screamed … me? The reality broke in shards. I was shivering, falling down …

The shot hit a translucent green wall a few inches in front of me.

And as in slow motion, I saw: The scattershot glowed, white hot, burst into flames and vanished.

And I felt: Incredible. Powerful, invincible …

The green dome had never stopped expanding. Everything it touched burst into flames. The table, the furniture, Uncle Vernon … soon, everything around me was burning. And then it hit the walls and the ceiling.

The walls seemed to bend under an onslaught of an unseen force … and then everything was back in normal time. A bang many times louder than the one from the gun reverberated through the house, and everything was blasted outwards. The ceiling caved in, like a card house robbed of its foundation, until it, too, was blasted away; away into the night.

I simply knelt there, wondering, somewhat confused, what just had happened. I'd done nothing, so it had to be accidental magic. All around me there was just rubble, nothing had survived the blast; no chunk was bigger than my trunk in size.

After some time, I looked further around. I was standing in the middle of all the debris, standing in the night; no ceiling, no roof above me, nothing separating me from the clear sky with its twinkling stars.

Number 4, Privet Drive looked like a torch, wonderful; orange flames in the night, the heat of the crackling fire on my skin, and I laughed, joyously. There it was again. I was one with me, I was free, free, everything was clear. The path in front of me, shining in brilliant clarity, like marble-white stepping stones, cold and beautiful, gleaming in the silver light under a full moon.

… _I expected better of you._

_Is a choice knowingly made in error, a wrong choice that leads to the right thing, better than choosing what is right, and leading to wrong?_

_Wastelands, yellowish-brown ground …_

And then, the voices in my head fell silent, and somehow I knew that they'd stay silent. I'd made my decision, I'd left the tunnel, reaching the open night.

As I stood over the charred body of my uncle in the wreckage of 4, Privet Drive, his nearly molten gun next to him; my wand still comfortably in my hand, there only and finally was blissful silence.

I slumped to the ground, leaning against a remaining part of the wall. The colours blurred before my eyes. Simply beautiful. I opened my arms wide. I felt like I was flying into the starry night, slowly drifting away.

And dimly, far, far away, there were two _pops_.

* * *

**Disclaimer:  
**I own nothing but a few interesting ideas. Quotes taken from _Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix_ (Bloomsbury): pp 691, 713, 728, 739

Also; thanks to everyone who reviewed and/or added me to favourites, C2 ... I appreciate it. Leave your comments and thoughts for this chapter as well?


	3. Interlude: In Magic, Blood and Death

**A/N:  
**I couldn't really fit this into the next chapter, so it has become one on its own. Timeline may be a bit confusing, as it starts before even the Prologue, but it ends up in the present, about the time where we left Harry in the chapter prior. Speaking of which, there's something I should clear up: the green dome had not really anything to do with an Avada Kedavra. It was simply wild magic/accidental magic/whatever you want to call it. I probably shouldn't have coloured it green, but oh well.

Big thanks to the folks at DLP; Voldemort became quite a bit better due to your help.

So anyway, chapter ahead – and if you don't care for the short scene with Bella in front of the mirror, blame Happy the House-Elf, not me.

* * *

**By That Last Candle's Light**

**Interlude: In Magic, Blood and Death**

_What are the boundaries of magic?_

_Everyone knows, for example, the five principal exceptions in the field of Transfiguration, of which my dear predecessor Alanius Gamp reasoned in such an admirable and plausible way and acquired its theoretic founding. Another one commonly known is the _vita-ex-morti_, in its more in-depth form relating to the disequilibria of life; where the life force of one person can restore aspects of life of a second, as there are: health, youth or beauty; yet even used fully, resulting in the poor person's demise, never to create or bring back a third. For obvious reasons, research has been outlawed for more than 400 years, however, for a man willing to risk the harshest of penalties and employ …_

_**Adalbert Waffling, Mysteries of Magic Part I: The Last Border**_

The heavy curtains were closed, barring out the bright sun, that would have peaked into the spacious bedroom at this time in the morning. She stood in the semidarkness, with only the silken bedsheet around her, in front of the large mirror, and scowled. She couldn't make out any details of her reflection, but there was no need. She knew how she looked, and so she stared disgusted at the mirror, showing this mockery of her, even if she couldn't see it – it was an insult to the name of Black.

Roughly five months had passed since the Dark Lord had helped her escape from Azkaban, and some of her former beauty had returned, but not _all_. Why couldn't she have it all back? It used to be so, that she and Narcissa were equals and opposites; fair to dark; calm, collected and most of all, _boring_, to, oh … yes, lively, outgoing and interesting; but they were both beautiful, of course. Now Narcissa was _still_ a beauty, but she no longer; nothing but a pale shadow of her former self.

That simply wasn't fair. She cocked her head, feeling tresses of her long black hair softly caressing her bare shoulder. Well, if that was so, it had to be remedied.

Pleased with her reasoning, she let her thoughts wander, to six names … _the_ six names. Scrimgeour, Dawlish, Patterson, McDonald, Smith, and above all, the leader of the squad, Alastor Moody. Six names for almost fourteen years of Azkaban. Six names that had turned her into _this_. That was a lot of time to pay them back for, wasn't it?

She nodded to herself.

Yes, of course it was, and she would get them, one after the other. Chasing them, hunting them, _fighting _them. Now that the Dark Lord had returned, it was simply a matter of time. He would declare his presence to the world soon, and the glorious days would be back once more, the fights, where nothing mattered but skill and power, crushing the weak, rewarding the powerful … power was might. She had power. And she would have her revenge.

She felt the thrill again, deep inside her … there was nothing like a fight. She thought of the curses she would use and shivered in anticipation. Stretching out her left hand, she called for her wand, and obediently, the Black Ash vanished from the small, forest green cushion at her bedside table, and appeared in her hand.

She pointed it at the mirror, imagining Moody on the ground, below her wand; and whispered almost lovingly: "_Intus invers_."

The blue light streaked out from the dark tip, hitting the mirror; which began to bulge outside at once, more and more, until it burst into thousands of shards that flew across the room. Quite a few hit her, one cutting a long gash across her right cheek.

"_Yes_," she hissed. "Just like that."

A drop of blood ran down into the corner of her mouth, thick and sweet. Black blood. Magical blood. _Pure_ blood. Blood and power, she tasted both, and it never failed to get her excited, causing her imagination to run wild.

_The grizzled man crawling on the ground, at her feet. His stomach bulging, his insides pressing against the abdominal wall, straining it to the burst … finally, it tore open, spilling coiled entrails out, yellow liquid leaked to the ground … The flesh of his belly curling back, opening the tear further to make room for his stomach that was pushing out, while his intestines were starting to wrap around his legs like grey snakes …_

Her breathing had become heavy, she felt her fingers at her hot core, long since having sneaked under the sheet, down, further down, to where she felt the heat building. Tracing her outer lips, they closed in, inching towards her centre … she could feel her slick wetness, spreading rapidly. Panting, she plunged a finger deep inside while her thumb flicked over her clit, teasing it. As if of it's own volition, her body arched against her hand, writhing, demanding more. A deep moan tore itself from her lips.

_His spinal cord bending, further and further, his back arched up, sharply, until in a scream of agony erupted from his mouth that excited her to unknown heights … it finally snapped. His head twitched once, then lay still … and still his entrails were pushing … out, everything out, until the entire area was covered blood, gore, body fluids and nothing was left inside of his body, completely turned inside out … Yes!_

She felt her body burn, a film of glistening sweat covering her exposed neck, her head thrown back. Another finger had joined the first, slowly starting to fill her, and she stuck in a third, moving back and forth, while she tasted more blood, more …

_Pop!_

"Mistress Lestrange, I is wanting to … oh, no! What's happen?"

Her head jerked around, and she stared angrily at a House-Elf, which was busy waving its hands around, tidying up the shards, before it turned towards the mirror, running its fingers along the frame.

"What do you think you are doing?" she barked at the pathetic creature.

"I is … is… I…"

"Repairing the mirror. Did I tell you anything in that regard?"

The House-Elf was now cowering on the ground, pulling at its long ears.

"No," it moaned horrified. "No, yous did not, Mistress. Happy did wrong. Oh, bad Happy. Bad, bad Happy. Happy will punish itself, oh yes, it will."

She tried to calm herself. Mother had always told her not to damage the furnishing.

"I should hope so, you useless thing, but _away from my eyes_. Get out of my sight! I was having most pleasant thoughts, until you interrupted me."

The House-Elf crawled away, but then seemed to remember something, and turned back around, glancing up at her fearfully.

"But Mistress, there was –"

She felt her temper rising. What was it with this stupid thing?

"_Out!_"

She flicked her wand, and banished it across the room, through the open door, against the opposite wall of the corridor. At the impact, something snapped with an audible, satisfying _crack_. The House-Elf was wailing loudly.

"Bad Happy. Happy deserved its arm broken, yes it did. It will break its other arm as well to punish –"

_Bang._

Another wave, and the door shut; and finally, she was left alone. But the mood wouldn't return. Annoyed, she let the sheet slide down to the ground, and headed for the second door that let into the adjacent bathroom. Thinking about what would happen was all well and good, but she wanted to _do_ it. Now. She couldn't wait for the next summoning of the Dark Lord, that would mark the begin of his return to the rest of the world. Maybe she could suggest her plans to him?

Until that time, though, she could read what she would need to become beautiful once more. She bit her lower lip, thinking. Where to start?

She entered the black marble-clad bathroom. Her bare feet padded over to the bath that was set into the floor. Idly tracing the white veins in the stone with her fingers, she got an idea.

"Happy!"

With a small pop, the House-Elf returned. Both of its arms were bent at odd angles, hanging uselessly at its side, and red blisters covered its hands.

"Mistress called?" it squeaked.

"Obviously," she snapped. "I want to take a bath. Also, bring me the _Recueil Noir_, and spell it waterproof."

Without another word, the House-Elf vanished, to return moments later with the old, black book floating in front of it. The book was placed on the small, wooden stool next to the bath tube; at which the House-Elf busied itself, while she tapped her feet impatiently. Finally, it closed the tab, using both hands.

"It is done, Mistress," it said, its voice wavering, before it crumbled to the floor; but vanished before it hit the ground.

She lowered herself into the nice, hot bath, and picked up the book, starting to leaf through it.

– – – – – – – – –

Only a short time later, she was interrupted once again, this time by a shriek.

"Bella? Are you –? _Bella!_ Is that the _Collection_ you have_ in your bath?_"

The book was ripped from her grasp by two delicate hands, and she looked up to see their owner clutching the black book like a precious child against the front of her fine Dress-Robes, while staring at her horrified, blue eyes wide.

"What were you thinking, reading it here?"

The blonde stroked over the book, looking for wet patches.

Bellatrix pouted. "What do you have against me reading it, Cissy?"

Narcissa Malfoy, née Black, rolled her eyes. "_In the bath_, Bella. It is written in ink. You read a book in a library."

Now Bellatrix rolled her eyes.

"_You_ read books in a library. Just like you have it off with Lucius in your bed only, am I right?"

Narcissa wasn't moved in the slightest. "There is a proper time and place for everything. You never learned that."

Bellatrix smirked. "You didn't seem to mind that time when I laid you with your back on the kitchentable and –"

"I was young." The tone was the same, but the faintest trace of red had appeared on her cheeks.

A House-Elf had appeared, and began washing Bellatrix's back with a sponge.

"Give it back," she said to her older sister. "Obviously, I spelled it water-proof. And anyway, libraries are dusty and mouldy. Only you would like reading books there."

Narcissa ran her wand over the book, examining the charm, before hading it over tentatively, and seating herself on the stool.

"What are you looking for, then?"

Bellatrix flicked a few pages, before beaming up at her.

"I'm going to become beautiful again, Cissy. As beautiful as I was, before _they_ threw me into that cell."

Her tone had become darker, and much colder at the end of the sentence, carrying, once more, an icy promise.

But then, she brightened again.

"We're going to be complementary mirrors once more, just like it used to be. Here, look." She trusted the book into the hands of her sister. "I only need to borrow the _Ars Pulchritudinis_ for the potion. You still possess it?"

Narcissa was reading through the passage.

"Yes, of course I do, but …" She read the sentence again. "Bella! Where would you get a _living human being_?"

Bellatrix waved the concerns of her sister away.

"When the Dark Lord announces his return, there'll be enough, Cissy. I can get one then."

The other woman shook her head. "Apart from that, it might work. Of course, you'll have to take care to follow exactly what –"

"Yes!" she said annoyed. "You know that I was _always_ just as good at potions as you were!"

Suddenly, she remembered that she was in the bathroom with her sister.

"How come you are here, though, Cissy? I would have greeted you in the drawing room, had I known of your arrival beforehand."

Getting a second thought, and eyeing her sister up and down, she added: "Of course, you could always shed those bulky robes of yours and join me in the bath? The water is lovely."

Narcissa shook her head. "You are impossible. But you didn't know? I told a House-Elf to announce me."

Bellatrix shrugged, pushing some of the foam from her shoulders.

"Stupid thing forgot to mention it, then. Is it business about the Dark Lord? His plan for the day after tomorrow? Rodolphus is out."

She sounded a bit frosty at that name, and her sister picked it up at once, while shaking her head at the question before.

"Is everything alright? Do you think he should be outside when they are still searching you?"

She shrugged once again, noticeably uninterested.

"He'll be careful."

"Then what?"

Bellatrix glowered at the dark tiles.

"Azkaban was hard on him, harder than on me. He just isn't what he used to be. Can you believe I defeated him in duel in less than a minute the day before yesterday? He is … frail. _Weak._ The spirit, the fire … most of what I admired in the young man is gone. Poor Rudy."

Narcissa tilted her head.

"But he never was your equal. Not really. No one ever was, apart from _him_."

"That may be so, but it was … not like this." She climbed out of the bath tube, wrapping herself in a soft towel, handed to her by the House-Elf, and changed the topic. "If not official business, then what brings you? Or were you simply _bored_?"

Narcissa sniffed, as they walked back into the bedroom, where the mirror was now completely disassembled, and the curtains open; lightening up the room furnished with mostly dark wood.

"I am _never_ bored, as you well know. No, Draco is taking his Owls, and had the Potions exam yesterday. When Lucius was at the Ministry in the morning to arrange a clear path, he asked old Marchbanks. He'll get a perfect Outstanding, can you believe it?"

Bellatrix threw her a look, and began to dress.

"Well, at least _something_ he seems to have inherit from your side. He looks almost like a carbon copy of Lucius these days – only without being as competent as he is."

"He is not _that_ bad, Bella."

"He is a whiny little brat," noted Bellatrix. "He is hiding behind Lucius, and relies on him for the solutions of his own problems. Makes me happy that I never had children."

Narcissa frowned.

"Well, if that really is your opinion, then how about you start teaching him a few things when he comes back home for the holidays? You were always better than I at Occlumency, for example; you could …"

– – – – – – – – –

As Bellatrix walked from the Dungeon, across the hall, her thoughts were fixed on the potion she'd just left. It had nearly taken a month, but now it was finished; it had finally turned pure white, just as it was supposed to.

Normally, she'd have gone to Cissy, but Cissy was still sulking about Lucius getting caught and shipped to Azkaban (as if he would be there for long), and about the task Draco had been assigned (as if it wasn't an honour to be chosen for a task from the Dark Lord). So she felt not particularly inclined to share the news at this very moment; and the Dark Lord had called anyway.

Really, she thought huffing, even Draco had seemed pleased at the prospect. It looked like he'd finally started to grow a spine, now that Lucius wasn't quite able to adhere to his every whim. So what was Cissy's problem, then?

Her steps echoed through the empty hall which was semi-dark, with a few lit lamps; but the light was not able to drive away all the shadows that were clinging doggedly to the walls and obscuring the expensive elegance of the manor.

She reached the door and did what no other person would've dared; she simply threw it open.

The room wasn't lit any brighter than the hall. The only source of light was a fire; the Dark Lord preferred it that way. He was sitting in a upholstered carved chair, sideways to the heath; one half bathed in a reddish glow, the other draped in deep shadows.

The fire flickered as the air moved, through the open door; the spidery shadows scurrying over walls, tapestries and a huge bookshelf, on the far side of the room.

"Well?"

The Dark Lord raised his voice, and for a moment, Bellatrix thought he had addressed her, when she noticed the small form across from him, sitting on a simple chair. He fidgeted nervously under the crimson gaze that never once left him.

"Y-yes, my Lord. As – as you requested, I –"

His small, fearful eyes flickered to her, and he seemed to shrink even more in his chair. Bellatrix looked at him in disgust. What business had the Dark Lord with the Rat?

She didn't advance further, but remained in the doorway. The Dark Lord never gave any indication that he had noted her presence, but of course he knew. He always knew. Wormtail started up once again, coughing slightly.

"I have the list, here –"

She saw him pulling something out of his cloak, and handing it to the Dark Lord, who took it and didn't look at it for more than a second, before he handed it back.

"Wormtail." His voice was even, even pleasant, perhaps, but Bellatrix knew better. He loved playing these games.

"Would you mind reading it for me? It is your achievement, after all."

"Of course, my Lord."

He sounded much more confident now, seemingly reassured by the Dark Lord's words, maybe even proud. _Stupid little rat. _He should have known better, really, he should. _So sad … to see you go … A little grey rat on the ground, bursting on the side and spilling entrails, as the heel of a shiny black boot drills itself into it …_

She started to breath a little faster, but Wormtail's annoyingly whiny voice ripped her from her daydreams.

"Caption: _Complete list of all persons ever on guard duty at Target Area, by Peter Pettigrew, also known as 'Wormtail'._"

His eyes flickered to the Dark Lord, who sat in his chair motionless.

"Alastor Moody, Hestia Jones, Nymphadora Tonks, Mundungus Fletcher, Remus Lupin, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Bill Weasley, Dedalus Diggle, Sturgis Podmore, Emmeline Vance."

"Fine, fine, Wormtail. What do you suppose I should do with that?"

If he had been proud before, he now nearly bursting with pride, having been asked for his opinion.

"Well, like you told me, my Lord – you want to visit –" his eyes flickered to Bellatrix "– _the place_, and needed a list to decide when the best time to do that would be. I had my unique abilities, spied on them, and now, as you have the list, you can go."

"Can I, Wormtail? Can I?"

In a fluid motion he had risen, and was now towering over the Rat, the until-now well concealed rage finally showing in his movements and his voice; which never rose, just turned into a menacing hiss.

"Tell me, how am I suppose to decide that, if you _didn't list the times of the shifts_?"

The Rat had finally realised that everything was, in fact, not alright. Not at all. Bellatrix watched gleefully as he cowered under the looming figure of her master. Insinuate that she wasn't to know the details from his pathetic mission, would he? As if she wasn't the Dark Lord's most trusted! He opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to think better of it.

"No answer, then, Peter? Again I ask: What do you suppose I should do with that?"

"I'm sorry Master – I – I didn't think –"

"I don't need you to tell me that! This paper is effectively useless."

The Dark Lord flicked his hand, which suddenly held his wand, and the paper in Wormtail's hand started to glow from the inside, before bursting into flames. He released it with a yelp. Small flakes of ash fell on the ground.

"_This_ is what do with it! And now listen carefully, Wormtail, because you are rapidly approaching the same level of usefulness to me as this sheet of parchment."

He pointed to the ashes. The Rat started to shake in his chair, not missing the obvious message. Bellatrix leaned forwards in eager anticipation.

"I gave you specific instructions, yet you failed me. You always wanted a reward for your help before, now you shall have what you asked for, though perhaps not in the way you –"

"Master, please!"

The wand twitched.

The Rat was now kneeling at his feet, shaking like a leaf, under the slim wand which was pointed at him.

"Maybe I can – I didn't fail … completely? Just … halfway?"

The Dark Lord eyes seemed to drill holes into his head.

"Failing _halfway_, Wormtail? You mean to say, you cannot even fail properly?"

He flinched, but continued speaking hastily.

"If you want to visit _it_, the best time to do so would be on Mundungus Fletcher's shift. He is not very observant, and –"

Bellatrix saw the magic explode from the Dark Lord. In a sudden burst of rage, Wormtail was flung back against the wall of the study where he remained stuck, unable to move. He made choking noises, and she realised delightedly that the magic was slowly, deliciously suffocating him, while the Dark Lord gave free rein to his fury.

"Do you think I allow myself to be mocked? By _you_? What use is that information to me if I don't know when he is there, you brainless worm?"

The head of the Rat slammed repeatedly against the wall while he was clawing at his throat, desperately trying to dislodge the grip from the invisible hand of magic; trying to form words and failing. The Dark Lord wore a razor-thin smile as he inclined his head and stepped closer, now only inches away from the helpless man on the wall.

"If you want to say something, do try to speak up a bit, Wormtail. I don't think I can hear you."

The Rat gasped and spluttered, while the pressure on his throat started to leave purple bruises.

"Y-yes, but … he – there – _right … now – _!" he choked out. Even between all the other noises he made, his tone sounded clearly desperate.

The Dark Lord stared down at him for a tense minute, unrelenting, then turned away; his robe swishing behind him. Wormtail fell to the ground in a boneless heap, painfully gulping in huge amounts of air.

"Get out of my sight before I decide that you did, in fact, fail completely and not just _halfway_. Go to Snape and assist him with whatever he needs. Maybe that is something not above your abilities."

"Yes, my Lord. Thank you for –"

Wormtail went flying again.

"Do I have to repeat myself?"

He crawled out of the room on all fours, as fast as possible, passing a very disappointed Bellatrix on his way out.

"Bella."

His voice was light again, never indicating he had been enraged only moments before; a testament of his control over his emotions.

"You called for me?"

She thought, quickly. What could he want? He had been angry with her failure at the Ministry, but it seemed unlikely that this summon would have to do with that. Too much time had passed … put perhaps – she dared to hope it – he had forgiven her now?

The Dark Lord inclined his head.

"It would seem that way."

His white, mask-like face showed a faint scowl, as he walked over to the heath, standing with his back to her.

"Due to Wormtail's blunder we have not the time I wished for …"

A pause stretched, the silence only disrupted by the soft cracking of the fire as the logs suddenly shifted. He seemed deep in thought, and Bellatrix took care not to disturb him. Finally, he spoke.

"I heard you are preparing a certain potion?"

She nodded, surprised; then remembered that he couldn't see it in his back.

"Yes, my Lord. It is completed; the only thing left is to do the ritual and drink it."

Of course, the question was not how he knew, it was simply why he was interested.

"Tell me more about it. You need a human sacrifice?"

"Yes, my Lord."

He finally turned; his powerful red eyes fixating her. Bellatrix shivered, but not in fear.

"I have not yet forgiven you, Bella. Lucius was in charge, and for that he is now in Azkaban, learning his lesson. But you did not succeed, either. The prophecy is destroyed, so I now have to resort to … other means. It makes things more complicated than they needed to be, and that displeases me."

She lowered her head, waiting for him to continue and to say whatever it was he had to say.

"Take it as a token of my generosity, then, as I grant you the favour of accompanying me on a mission; you, and only you. There, you will find your missing ingredient."

A feeling of pleasant surprise raced through her. He had denied her the thrill of watching that bridge collapse and maybe have fun with a few of the surviving Muggles, and instead sent her to oversee the giants in Somerset every once in a while; a task that bored one to tears. Clearly, it had been because of her failure to retrieve the prophecy. But perhaps, this would be the change she had anticipated.

She had asked herself why the Dark Lord was not more active; just manoeuvring his supporters into better positions at the Ministry, by using scare tactics and killing a selected few that were in the way. It had almost seemed like he was planning or waiting for something, spending many hours secluded in his room.

Maybe this was it.

"Thank you, my Lord."

He walked past her, in long strides.

"Follow me."

– – – – – – – – –

Meanwhile, in an underground, hidden-from-ordinary-people building in central London, one of those strange chains of events had long since started; those that were proceeding invisibly until everything cumulated in a big bang. Everyone would see the effects, but no one would ever have thought to look at the primal cause at that time, seemingly so small and insignificant. Truly, it was funny how sometimes those little things could make such huge difference, like, for example, decide between life and death.

Everything had started with a spoilt piece of fish earlier that day. It had been used in one of the canteen-meals; and an otherwise not really important clerk had eaten it, which, while not making him sick in earnest, lead to him spending just as much time in the bathroom as at his writing desk in his little office.

That was the reason he was behind schedule with his task to put together the figures for the half-annual statistical analysis of underage magic, what, in turn, had caused the paper to be send out late that day, almost before finishing time at the ministry, which for the office for Improper Use of Magic Office in the Department of Magical Law Enforcement was seven o' clock.

The head of this office, Mafalda Hopkirk, besides being a very voluminous woman, was a very punctual person, she always had been, and despised nothing more than for someone or something to disrupt her precise schedule. She would start tidying up her desk at exactly 6:45, start packing her things together afterwards and lock the door to her office at 7 PM on the dot.

So naturally, she hadn't been pleased as the flying memo she'd been waiting for all day, the one carrying the source-material for her report, had fluttered onto her desk at 6:44. One minute later, and she probably would have ignored it, and continued tidying up and everything would have happened in a different way. But since she hadn't started yet, she'd sighed, sat down heavily in her office chair once more, and done something she'd done the last time over twenty years ago: she had deliberately decided to ignore her work schedule.

The report needed to be finished today, but she'd made a mental note to ensure that the loitering fool who'd made her come home late would never have a chance to rise higher in the ministry than the clerk position he held now. Luckily, that was well within her sphere of influence.

Well, luckily for her; she'd seen to it that, as soon as Rufus had become the new Minister, he knew exactly just what he had in her, as did Cornelius before him. Within the archive on the other side of the door behind her were files and data on almost every witch and wizard, and politicians always needed information.

Rufus had understood quickly that it was advantageous for him and the frictionless procedure of things if he had her favour. And that was all she wanted; it was widely known that she had no political ambitions whatsoever, so the Minister had been quick to assure her that she was indeed a _very_ valuable staff member of the Ministry.

So besides putting a roadblock in said clerk's career, she'd furthermore see to it that he was transferred from her office to somewhere else. She didn't need to suffer dilly-dallying imbeciles, by Merlin not.

With this thoughts she had begun to compose the report in a routinely manner; she had done it many times before and knew what to do.

– – – – – – – – –

Now, three hours later, her magical windows were dark, reflecting the night that had fallen outside, many floors above. The only light in the office came from her magical desk lamp, providing a much more even and brighter light than flames of torches or candles would; ideal for writing.

She was almost finished, and took a breath, stretching her fleshy arms, while thinking about the result of her report. The count of underage magic had risen by three percent compared to the second half of the last year. Those nasty little creatures, doing magic when they weren't supposed to.

She never liked children, which was the reason she'd never married and had her own; they were loud, obnoxious and rude. And while watching out for magic done by children was not the only task of her office, it was the one she liked the most; she felt a distinct pleasure, each time she signed one of those letters with a flourish. No child would get away with doing forbidden magic, not if she had to say something abou–

A red light flashed through the darkness.

In came from somewhere in the background, where the metallic instruments that received and recorded the occurrences of underage magic where gleaming in the darkness. Her head whipped around at an impressive speed. The light signalled that one or more devices were picking up something.

Once again with a speed that defied her mass, she was over at the long table where the units where seated. Her wand illuminated the scene. The recorder labelled 'Harry Potter', next to the ones labelled 'Surrey/Rest' and 'London/South' was scribbling away for the letter it produced like mad.

The quill jumped back and forth, as she exclaimed in her shrill voice: "Aha! Now I've got you, Harry Potter, oh yes."

This happening made working over-time almost worth it. Almost.

"And this time, not even Albus Dumbledore or Merlin himself will be able to explain your blatant disregard for Law away or overturn the sentence or …"

She calmed herself, she had to be cautious. It wasn't good for her heart if she got to upset, said the healers at St. Mungo's. And thinking about the trial almost a year ago made her always very upset. There simply was _no_ excuse for a child to do magic away from Hogwarts. Not a single one. None.

But now, she had the proof right here. She squinted her small eyes, trying to read what was already written.

"Let's see what you will lose your wand for," she murmured.

The letter had the standard beginning,

_Dear Mr. Potter,_

_We have received intelligence that a_

and here the quill was scribbling word after word. Mafalda Hopkirk's eyes widened in astonishment.

"Well, I never – that – _never_ in my life – blatant disregard for Magical Law – I – You," she sputtered to the recorder, incapable of forming coherent sentences.

It started with:

_a silencing charm, a bludgeoning curse, a torturing curse (Class III/Unforgivable), a …_

The list went on and on. She felt herself growing faint as she read the latest entries, just being written, still wet from ink.

… _a blasting curse, a fire charm, a killing curse (Class III/Unforgivable), a killing –_

She couldn't comprehend what she was reading, her brain had seemingly stopped working; and so, the only thing she could do was standing there slack-jawed, her massive form bent over the little device still writing, faster and faster. Suddenly, it began to glow, an eerie green, and before she could do so much as blink, it exploded in a flash of turquoise fire into thousands of razor sharp metal-shrapnel, burning the list it was writing in the process.

Mafalda Hopkirk never had a chance. Her head was less than a yard away from the receiver, when its fine senses registered a huge amount of magic unleashed on its target area, much, much too much. The backlash of the device overloading caught her full in the face and ripped the complete left half off, leaving only a mess of blood and flesh behind. The shrapnel drilled themselves into whatever remained, shredding her skin, her eyes and going right through to her brain.

She was still able to feel excruciating pain, as the burning hot metal embedded in her eyes blinded her forever, before only moments later her brain stopped working and she died.

It would be not before the next morning, that the clerk would find her, lying next to the table in a puddle of her own blood, stemming from her terribly mutilated head, which was now just an unshapely piece of red matter, the face no longer recognisable as once having been Mafalda Hopkirk's.

* * *

_**Reviews are, as always, welcome! I responded to everyone I could; to all others, thank you as well.**_

Otherwise, nothing's mine, and progress updates are in my Bio.


	4. From the Ashes

**A/N:** Well, as I said in my profile - busy RL is busy, but so far I have no plans to abandon any of my stories, and I _am_ writing. So here is proof :P

That said, I was seriously considering leaving FF. net. Here's what almost made me. If you're writing yourself, you might know that FF. net has had a weird policy regarding certain symbols in the past - they got filtered out of a document, namely those that are commonly used for scene breaks, like a tilde or asterisks. That isn't new, and I had to change my scene breaks a few times already. (I don't want to use the bars, they are ugly within the story.)

What is a new level of idiocy, however, is that they DID allow asterisks for quite a while now, and consequently I used it then - and today, I checked my stories and found that they not only changed the filter to remove it from NEW uploaded documents (which I could have accepted), but also stripped all OLD ones. Everything that was posted. All stories. I now am the proud owner of roughly 230k words worth of stories WITHOUT ANY SCENE BREAKS. None. Whatsoever. Nichts. Nada.

I'm currently alternating between wanting to kill someone and feeling like drinking large quantities of ethanol-based fluids. Perhaps I'll do both.

Now, I went through this story and fixed it manually, in every chapter, but I don't know what I'll do for the rest of my works. FF. net. simply doesn't compare to PatronusCharm. net (where I post also, I recommend that site warmly to everyone, especially authors - check it out), in terms of user friendliness. If it wasn't for my readers, and the fact that it is the largest archive, I'd be fuck-ing gone like you wouldn't believe :/ That pissed off at the moment.

If you feel like it, send a few mails to the FF. net staff. Perhaps it will change something (ah, who am I kidding). But feel free to do it anyway.

.

Well ... regarding this chapter, thanks go to Mindless and Vlad over from the Dark Lord Potter Forums for helping me and looking it over. I hope you enjoy, despite all this fail-tism :s

* * *

**By That Last Candle's Light**

**Chapter Two: From the Ashes**

_An example of such a fringe-case, highlighting the problems arising with this approach, would be the Unbreakable Vow, where, as death is the penalty, the very life is staked on __reliability__ and __predictability__. Clearly, the question _if _the penalty is carried out can be agreed to with the same certainty as laid out above; however, the question of _when_ it will be carried out, that is to say, when the action meets the condition of the vow, can be wildly uncertain._

_Words are naturally ambiguous, leaving even with the most careful wording a certain leeway to magic to decide when an action has failed to adhere to what was sworn; and in situations like this, where quasi-sentience is demanded, the Theorem of Predictability breaks down …_

_**Adalbert Waffling, Advanced Magical Theory**_

Quiet.

That was the general state of the neighbourhood, and everyone liked it that way. Quiet and peaceful. After sundown, the people sat in their backyards, perhaps under a willow, reading a book or a paper, talking about the Prime Minister's Parliament speech and the latest faux-pas of the Queen's grandson and doing a hundred of other things, perfectly ordinary, perfectly usual and normal.

And so it was tragic, perhaps, that one little girl was not quite as ordinary, not quite as content to sit with the adults, not quite _like them_ at all. She didn't fit in, it wasn't her place, even though she didn't know it; she had always been a quiet child – quiet, like the neighbourhood – and so, no one ever noticed anything odd.

But when the wind started to ruffle her beautiful white dress, and she looked up to see the air shimmer, slightly, strangely; but most of all, _fascinatingly_, she silently slipped away from the adults who never noticed a thing – because indeed, they could not – and skipped down the path, following the strange green glow that was racing over the sky. It led her across the garden, to the fence, where she stood and watched as something like a green tidal wave rushed down the street. It was faint, but she thought it the most beautiful thing she had ever seen.

It passed her, passed through her, and she shivered – it was such an intense feel, and somehow, she began to realise that a tiny spark of it had been within all her life.

That very moment, two persons appeared, apparently from nowhere. She tilted her head, watching the scene curiously … and while her bare left foot was idly ripping out a few blades of grass with her toes, she wondered if she would ever learn to do that. It struck her as a nice thing to have.

It was a strange looking man, tall, and _white_, and a woman, dark haired and beautiful, only not. She had appeared directly in the green wall, and fell to her knees as it washed over her, her violet eyes alive with a burning intensity.

That made her pause.

The woman had obviously felt whatever it was. Not like the other adults who _never noticed a thing_. And her nature drove her onwards, and that was the reason that what would happen never could have been prevented; it was the way of things, and fate always balanced things out. The little boy that accidentally stumbled on the side-walk, just as he wanted to jump on the road to follow his red ball, many miles away, then survived the car that was speeding around the corner much too fast.

Decisions led to actions, and actions had consequences; it had always been so. That was not to say that men were unfree, everyone could do as they wished, as long as they were willing to accept the consequences of their doing. Even _defy_ fate – although only children and fools or madmen ever did; the former two because they couldn't see the disastrous results of their actions, and the latter because they didn't care.

All that was well beyond the scope of the little girl, though, as she climbed over the fence, and walked the short way down the road, over to the beautiful-but-not woman kneeling there and the tall man standing next to her.

The woman was rocking back and forth on her knees, still with that fiery glow in her eyes which now snapped towards her, making her pause in her steps, suddenly feeling somewhat shy and bashful. Those eyes fixating her gave the impression that they saw more than she did, and even though she couldn't tell how, she was certain that they were looking past the exterior, through her, _inside_ her.

"You … see?" she asked timidly, and took another small step towards the woman.

"Oh – yes, I see – need …"

Her hand jumped forwards, pointing at her small body. "_Cruor Aestuato_," the woman gasped out, still panting harshly.

The yellow light surrounded her. First it was warm, like a nice bath, but soon it became unpleasantly hot, _sweatingly_ hot, and it still grew more intense; it burned, burned her from the inside, oh god it burned. She crashed to the ground; tears obscured her vision as she started to claw at her skin, leaving long scratches that turned from white to red; anything to make it stop, please, _please_ make it stop.

But the curse was unrelenting, the feel of molten lava running through her veins as her blood boiled. And so, it was a relief when something burst in her chest, lessening the pressure and burning heat; and she didn't even realise that the virginal white of her gown, as pristine and pure as snow, was turning ruby red, in a stain directly above her heart. She only felt the relief, and saw the woman giving a last, heavy shudder and slumping to the ground.

As in dreams, she heard the two speak.

"Calm yourself, Bellatrix," ordered the man coldly, who hadn't moved a single muscle until now. He had lifted his hand, and laid his long, white fingers on top of the woman's hand, pressing it down. "We came to get work done. There is time enough yet, so we needn't hurry, but neither should we linger and _play_."

The rising woman nodded demurely. "Yes, Master. I apologise."

He never acknowledged her apology, instead started to move around, waving his hands in the air in strange patterns while muttering things.

"How curious," he murmured eventually. The woman looked questioningly; he turned towards her and adapted a lecturing tone. "There should have been wards here, preventing you from going any further."

He pointed towards _her_. She blinked, trying to make sense of it all.

"Exactly there. Now, as you can see, we're already past that point."

"The shockwave could have brought them down," suggested the woman, but the man shook his head.

"Not those. Any other, and perhaps I would agree, but they were of a special kind. Still, I very much believe that the person we're going to pay a visit to is the source of that magical release. If for no other reason that he is the only one here … well, apart from her."

He took a step further down the road.

"In any case, we can Apparate." And with that, he vanished, as suddenly as he had come. His companion lingered.

"Now what to do with you?" the woman murmured softly, so softly that she had to strain her ears to pick up the words; through the comfy warmth that was cloaking her like her thick blanket at night, more and more. What had just happened? Everything was so fuzzy …

The woman stepped closer. She looked like a dark angel to her. The angel bent over her, and softly stroked her flushed face.

"Are you an angel?" she asked, sleepily. "You look like one."

The hint of a smile crossed her face, but she never answered.

"Poor pretty," the angel murmured. "Such a pretty little Mudblood … a shame you have to die. It's not your fault that you were curious when you oughtn't to, and neither is your birth … what we are is defined by what we are born, is it not? Blood always tells. You can't help what you are … but neither can I."

She laughed softly, and ruffled her hair.

"In ways, I was like you, once. So just this one time, I promise it won't hurt. Close your eyes, take a deep breath, and before you know it, it's over. You'll see. Goodbye, pretty one." She lifted her hand, then seemed to think of one additional thing to say.

"And no, I'm not the angel, little witch. You are."

She nodded, that made sense.

"Goodbye, not-the-angel."

She felt so tired. There was a flash of green, and then nothing.

– – – – – – – – –

The night was alive in colours.

In front of my eyes, everything was bright, blindingly so, yet excessively clear in razor-sharpness. Trees, grass, cars – they all were there and not. They flickered, strangely and _different_, a swirling vortex of pinkish tints, interwoven with hues in green and silver, blue and yellow and more colours that had no name; spiralling slowly up into the sky. And I was the centre of it all, the centre of the world; around me a dome of light, slowly fading. I saw it all – I _saw_ …

The dome blocked any further view. I turned my head, my arms stretched wide. A cool, liquid-feeling-coloured band climbed up my hand, from a shape some way off that vaguely resembled a house. When my fingers touched it, they passed through it. It was nothing more than a shade of something that had-been.

The Had-Been colour tickled my skin. It was a nice colour, tasting like honey on my fingers, while I saw its poison crawling through my veins slowly underneath.

I smiled. It was lovely. Honey and poison. A wonderful, a terrifying combination.

I had taken Had-Been from within me and painted it all over the house, over the lumpy form a few yards away and also the one next to me, and now they all were fading, fading away into the darkness, fading away, all away …

Everything was perfect. I was one with the world, with myself, in euphoric bliss.

My eyes came to rest on a last form.

Dark, oh yes, but beautiful, in velvety blackness. It captivated me. It was perfection. The brilliant light of its inky darkness, its divine shape … it was shaped liked wildness, possessing so much Had-Been, and the longer I stared, the more I fell in –

Everything was _quiet_.

"Potter? What on earth –"

And my wonderful world collapsed in a heartbeat.

– – – – – – – – –

I screamed in rage.

Who had _dared_ to come and rip me from my dream? They would pay. They all would fucking pay.

I looked around me. I was sitting on the ground leaning against the fragment of a wall, on top of some rubble; stones, something squishy. Laughter started to sound through the darkness. I squinted ahead; in the milky starlight I saw –

"Bellatrix!" I roared. I knew that voice, indeed, I was certain I would have recognised her in midst of a crowd with my eyes tightly shut anytime. It was this odd combination of insanity and velvety …

_Finally_. That was the only thought left in my mind. The time had come. I knew what I was and what I had to do. The wand in my hand again, my trusty aid in all of my plans, warm and eager just like me; she, tall, in dark burgundy robes, the wand in her left hand; her black hair not open but tied back into a tight bun, giving her severe look.

The two of us alone, just us, under the pale starlight, both smiling, she somehow amused, I in anticipation …

_Her pale face turned lovely red, a red no glamour or make up could imitate, making her all the more beautiful – because, yes, she was beautiful, a dark, vicious beauty, and now I preserved that beauty for all eternity. Her death was my revenge …_

_I blinked, _and pulled myself together. Mustn't get carried away … the revenge was near, and the revenge was mine. One step, one heartbeat, one flick of my wand … and in one blink of an eye … an eye for an eye … _Crucio-_

The amused quirk of her lips turned into a full-blown laughter. "Didn't we go through that already, Potter? I told you you needed more than righteous –"

Her eyes widened as the red light hit her square in her chest. A scream tore from her lips, low first, then louder, as she crashed to the ground, a groan mixed with an almost animalistic cry of agony; sweet, so very sweet to my ears.

She wasn't laughing now.

Bellatrix was moving on the ground, writhing under my curse, what a wonderful invention: one spell to express the sum of my hatred and inflict it upon her, that she might feel what I felt, and the stronger my hatred, the better it worked. It worked … _For what seemed like hours, I kept it going, let these feeling wash through me, making me shiver due to the sheer intensity, and still leaving me restless in strange excitement, fading to a state of blissful euphoria, once I finally let up; one with myself and the world, just like before._

_And again, her voice ripped me from it._

"That was … not bad … Potter."

My eyes snapped open again. Had I ended the Cruciatus Curse? Why had I ended it? I wasn't done with her, I reminded myself. She was lying on the ground. I should have kept going … She had almost bitten through her lower lip. She shivered a little when she rose, slowly, carefully, brushing off her robes, but her voice strangely breathless.

"You made me _bleed_."

The tip of her tongue darted out of her mouth, catching the dark red droplet as it fell from her lip like a sprinkle of wine, before she performed a quick charm with her wand, and all traces of blood vanished.

"Mmmh."

The crazy bitch actually liked her own blood. Well, I guessed I had always known that, but …

_Figures _she_ would be the one to take it literally._

She shot me a lazy smile.

"So, I am to understand that little Harry is still angry I killed his pet-dog?"

The anger rushed through me. She did dare mock him – still? Seemingly the Cruciatus hadn't been enough. I clenched my wand.

"I will fucking kill you!"

She burst into a fit giggles.

"Not in the mood, Potter."

It made me angry. Oh yes, I was angry. I felt cold hatred, in me, around me, and it was all I was, and all I ever wanted to be. It fuelled my spells, and perhaps it consumed me.

But then, it also kept me alive.

"_Reducto!_"

She Apparated out of the way of the blasting curse. It ripped away the entire upper half of what remained of the outer wall of the living room. Chunks of stone pelted a shield that had snapped up around Bellatrix. I fired more blasting curses, sprinting after her, but it was useless; I couldn't land a spell on her, and was rapidly moving from angry to completely pissed off.

I needed her to _stay in one place_.

"_Incendio!_"

The standard fire charm, but with a twist. Yes, the fight in the Ministry had given me more to think about than just Bellatrix's lesson in using the Cruciatus Curse. I had watched when Dumbledore duelled Voldemort. The fire whip he had used …

I tried it now.

It worked spectacularly. Well, it wasn't exactly a whip, more a flamethrower with a twenty feet fire-jet, but that suited me just fine. With a dark smile, I simply pointed my wand to wherever Bellatrix was. She would burn.

She reappeared some three feet to my right and vanished in an inferno of flames. For a second time that night, she screamed, and I found then I had a new favourite sound. Nothing was better, nothing was more fulfilling, than hearing her velvety voice scream. Knowing that _I_ _made_ her scream. The smell of burnt flesh reached my nose. She burned.

Then, suddenly, she was gone. I registered the obvious implication a split second too late. I tried to whirl around, but already my arms were yanked behind my back. Her hand clamped down on my wrists with surprising strength, keeping them with a painful twist from moving. She was standing directly behind me, pressed against me, while her black wand brushed softly over my neck. I felt her breath on my skin, as she bent her neck over my shoulder.

"I could kill you now … so easily."

Her voice was a low murmur in my ears. The tip of the wand pressed harder against my neck, and suddenly there was a constricting feeling around my throat.

I couldn't breath.

I was choking, desperately trying to get air; and the world dulled around me. I struggled in her grasp, to no avail, hearing my heartbeat – and hers, her harsh panting in my ears …

"Yes!"

Her voice quivered slightly, her grip on my hands slacked just a little. It was enough to move my index finger, to press it down, using my middle finger as a bearing and so prompt my wand, between the two fingers, to execute a sharp downwards slashing motion.

Truly, let no one say I did not learn anything that day in the Ministry. It had been a well of knowledge, in more than one sense, as I had eventually come to realise. Now, taking a leaf out of Dolohov's book, I used his favourite curse without saying the incantation aloud, like he did the time when he used in on Hermione.

_Costae strinxi_, I thought. Bellatrix screamed and stumbled backwards. I feel to my knees, clutching my throat and gasping for air, while I watched her performing a quick counter spell on herself, stopping the ribcage from collapsing and crushing her lungs. I hadn't known there was one.

She scowled in my direction.

"That was not nice, Potter."

No, it wasn't nice. _I_ wasn't nice. I wanted to see her _dead_, the light gone from her eyes, her breathing stopped. Dead, dead. I felt the power within me, flowing through me, felt it pushing, shoving, just like it had back in my little clearing, and suddenly I was sure I could do it. My wand shuddered a little, and it felt so _right –_

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

And the sensation washed trough me, warmly, soothing; a wonderful, great feeling, somewhat like a relaxing bath; just as a narrow green beam raced across what was once the living room. Bellatrix didn't move, but quickly summoned a panel of the broken cupboard. It shattered to splinters when the curse impacted.

A slow smile spread across her face. "Look at that. Little Harry isn't quite so little anymore. You really want to kill me and are willingly employing the Dark Arts as the means. And to think that it was I who pushed you beyond the borders, reduced you to that state. I feel a little proud."

Then she narrowed her eyes.

"Now calm down or I'll make you. I have better things to do."

"What is the matter with you, Lestrange?" I yelled back over to her. "Too cowardly to fight?"

Her faux-playful demeanour vanished.

"What was that, Potter?"

Oh yes, just a little more baiting – I remembered how proudly she had walked into prison, in that memory in Dumbledore's Pensive. That would work. That would work _splendidly_.

"I saw Dumbledore's memory of your trial, you know. You looked so proud then, but perhaps you aren't really a Dark Witch and Death Eater, after all. Did he get you with the Imperius-curse too, like he did Malfoy? So now that he returned, you hesitate? Avoid fights?"

She stilled completely. "Stop it, Potter. I'm warning you."

I paused too, breathing heavily, then smirked.

"What, Bellatrix? Am I right? Were you simply forced to execute another person's orders? You _didn't want_ it? You, a poor, helpless _victim_ … _Trixie_?"

She let out an incoherent scream of rage and flung nasty looking yellow curses at me that I was barely able to dodge. They hit the ground to my right and my left, and wherever they struck, bursts of fires exploded into the sky.

Finally.

The world blurred, as I responded in kind. I sprinted towards her, through columns of fire, with green flashes brightening the night. She was casting silently, and so I could only guess what half the spells she fired at me did; but soon, the ground was burning, like the rest of the house, and we were fighting in flames.

In a furious exchange of curses, most of which on my part were limited due to my lack of knowledge, but made up for through sheer power, we executed deadly dance. Yes, it was deadly, it was glorious. I realised this, surprised. Fighting her was wonderful. It was a fulfilling experience, giving all I had, fighting against someone who did the same. This was life. At its most basic, life was fighting, clawing, biting, struggling for existence, risky and deadly, and I felt _alive_.

"I am the Dark Lord's most trusted, Potter!" she shouted. "Because I am loyal to his cause like no one else is. Because I am one of the most powerful witches in Britain. Because I'm proud to purge the earth from those that are not worthy."

Her violet eyes glittered fanatically.

"And I will use any of my power and more to achieve this vision of perfection, and it will be by my own free will. _No one_ will use me. You hear me, Potter? _No one!_"

A curse streaked past my head and a tree exploded in a roaring explosion of flames. Her face was a mask of blank hatred. I revelled in the look in her eyes. This, _this_ was Bellatrix. The glimpses of raw insanity, the thrilling feel of knowing that it was _right there_, hidden just below the surface … so very feral, _animalistic_ – like a wild animal, caged and starved, which now relentlessly threw itself against the bars of iron will and loyalty beyond believes keeping it in check …

That was the woman who had murdered Sirius and regretted nothing. And that was whom I was going to kill. I almost felt a lingering regret, just for a second.

I stormed ahead, trying to get closer towards her, flinging a cutting charm in her direction.

"_Diffindo!_"

She drew a small circle with her wand, and my spell splashed against a bluish shield she had conjured non-verbally.

"There's power enough behind your spells, Potter, but whatever did they teach you at Hogwarts? Attacking with cutting charms used for _sewing_?"

I remembered that it hadn't worked already at Marge. Well, fuck.

"_Avada Kedavra!_"

A thoughtful look came over her, as she ducked the killing curse. By now I had gotten the hang of it. It got easier, the more I used it.

"_Sectum!_" she suddenly snapped, loudly.

A bright yellow curse slipped past my defences and sliced up my left thigh. Without hesitating, I used the same words and fire back. It ripped through her midriff, creating a gash from her pelvis up to her chest, which gushed a stream of red.

"_Incruentatus!_"

The grey beam passed me, crashing into a tree, which exploded in a wet shower of sap. It made me curious what it would have done to a human. The same?

Another curse nearly broke my shield, and then I returned the fire.

"_Scindo Viscum!_"

"_Declino!_"

It hit the shield she created and was not repelled but deflected, passing her without hitting her, again and again, and I pushed her backwards. The power was a steady hum, it was in my wand and brushed over my skin, and I remembered well how Dumbledore's spells had felt in the duel with Voldemort at the Atrium, the sheer power of it making my hairs stand on end. I was reaching the same level, but still Bellatrix managed to nudge them away.

Once, twice.

The third time it wasn't enough. It was deviated only slightly and caught her right, non-wand hand, ripping the skin off in layers. Left behind was a bloody mess. It didn't even make her pause, and she retaliated at once.

"_Vercundus!_"

I was unprepared and the curse pulverised my left shoulder joint. It downright exploded. Agonising pain ripped through my body, and she laughed.

"Tell me, do you miss your godfather?" Her voice turned into a low hiss. "Because I … _killed_ him?"

As if these words were a trigger the world blurred. The hate was a deep well, bottomless and dark, and it filled me to the brim. Pain was no longer an issue, nothing was. The steady hum of power sounded in my ears, born and fuelled by my hatred for her, and that was all there was, and all there needed to be. It made me strong and gave me purpose, to do what I needed to …

_I squashed her like the bugs back in my little clearing, battered away at her until she was lying there on the ground, bleeding … her intestines curled around her, a bloody squashed heap, and then the body thrown to rot … and the bones to bleach in the sun …_

_I enjoyed killing him … He sullied the name of Black when he ran away. He was a Blood-Traitor of the highest order. He consorted with Muggleborn-scum – your bitch of a mother. He was a shame for the family, and should have been put down like the rapid dog that he was a long time ago. I'm proud that I could do it. I'd do it again in a heartbeat._

_Of course you would, Bella … I expected nothing less of you._

_The rage was within me, dark and burning, channelled into my magic; my tool – no, more, a part of myself, in perfect unity, knowing that was what I wanted, what I needed, who I was._

_The fire flickered behind her, reminding me of something, like a half-forgotten dream … Pillars of Fire …_

_I ran towards her, firing curse after curse. She was unable to dodge, unable to shield them all – unable to shield the unforgivable curses …_

_Crucio! I shouted and she screamed again, but then she wrenched herself free. I responded to that with the cutting curse, ripping a chunk of flesh right out of her left arm. I cut more chunks of flesh out of her – I would –_

Her laughter sounded throughout the haze. The ground exploded all around me, creating a ten feet crater, and throwing me backwards. Something hit lower body, my legs broke with an ugly cracking sound, and then I was caught by an invisible force and pressed down onto the ground, in the middle of the crater. Within seconds, I was disarmed and defeated. I struggled against whatever magic rendered me immobile and could not move an inch.

Bellatrix was stalking towards me. She stopped at my feet, looking down at me. I saw the cruel glee at my helplessness in her eyes.

"Better, but not nearly good enough. Lesson two, Potter: Turning righteous anger into rage and blind hatred works, but makes you easily vulnerable."

She giggled.

"So sad you won't have time to take that to heart as well. Good-bye, Potter."

Her wand rose, the tip pointed at my stomach.

"Avada Ke-"

Suddenly, Bellatrix was rendered mute, and an uncanny force pushed us both from one another. My wand was ripped out of her grasp, and soared towards another person. Her own did the same. I squinted at him. Who –

Voldemort rose from an old-fashioned Fauteuil armchair, clapping slowly. The sound his white hands made echoed eerily over the still burning wreckage with us in the centre. The shine of the flames flickered over his ghostly pale appearance. Most of his face was shrouded in darkness, however; only the eyes stood out, burning red.

"I am impressed, Harry. You almost cost Bellatrix one hand. Not her wand-hand, certainly, but it remains an accomplishment. You display talent and power. A pity that it is going to waste."

Bellatrix looked up at him, slightly petulantly, her left hand stretched out.

"May I not kill him, Master?"

Voldemort made a sound that could have passed for a chuckle.

"Now, now, Bellatrix. You know that his death is mine. But I thank you for a most entertaining evening, so far. You might just have redeemed yourself a little."

On her face, the emotions at Voldemort's words played out. The disappointment that she wouldn't be the one to kill me was substituted with pride. Her face was aglow in happiness at her Master's praise.

"Thank you, my Lord."

Voldemort nodded shortly before he turned again to me.

"The same goes for you, naturally. It needs two persons to make a good duel."

His long, spidery fingers traced the length of my holly wand idly.

"It really is almost sad that you will have to die, now … but then again, we always part with the one thing we like most, do we not? Because that is the only way to not become lazy and complacent. Yes, Harry, I finally came to kill you. You have disrupted my plans one to many times, I'm afraid."

He paused.

"I will grant you a reward, though. You shall not die by my wand, like I planned it to. I will use yours to kill you; rendering me unable to truly claim your death. Lord Voldemort always respects power, and those who wield it."

I had barely been listening to his explanations. I was beaten, defeated. I had fought her, and lost. Failed.

My wand in Voldemort's hand rose.

And again, the words.

"Avada –"

So this was it. This was the end?

_No!_ Suddenly, everything in me rebelled at that thought. My eyes found Bellatrix, who was standing there, watching the happenings semi-interested. I wouldn't fucking die before I got the chance to pay her back. I would fucking _make her interested_. I needed a second chance – I needed –

The solution. The possible way – the only way, it appeared in front of my eyes, in that perfect clarity I'd come to taken for granted; a next stone I stepped upon, directly in front of the last. A straight, direct path, where each step behind me was the reason of every one that would follow, and each step before me the logical consequence, the sum of every step already taken.

I knew what I needed to do. There was one more bargaining chip left.

"Stop," I said, my voice so calm, it even surprised myself.

Voldemort looked down at me, pausing for a second.

"The time is up, Harry."

I knew what I had to do, and didn't hesitate a second. I tilted my head, and looked at the white, half-snake-half-human face.

"Wouldn't you," I said, "wouldn't you want to know the full prophecy, if I'm going to die anyway?"

I guess, then, that I should have felt hesitation in giving up the one secret Dumbledore had spent years of his life protecting, but the truth was, just as my little feud with Voldemort, it was completely unimportant compared to _her_.

I guess I would've sold my soul to get my chance at her, and perhaps, in a way I did – or had, already, who knew.

And who cared.

I used the prophecy to save my life now, and it worked, one final time; and that was all I needed. When all was said and done, my role in this war would be over.

Voldemort lowered his wand.

"So Dumbledore told you, at last. But of course … you know that I care about the prophecy no more. Me being here proves this. So why tell me now?"

Well, I suspected he had finally decided to say fuck it and kill me. Couldn't rely on him dithering over it forever, after all. Whatever Voldemort was now, he had had shown a brilliant mind, once, that had to be there, still. Somewhere. _But are you certain, my friend? Really certain? Because those who make a mistake once …_

As if he had read my thoughts, he confirmed them. Perhaps he had. I needed to learn Occlumency.

"Don't hold me for a fool, Potter," he said quietly. "All caring about the prophecy brought me were problems, from the very start. I would've been better off without ever acting on it at all, I see this now. I would have won the war unchallenged, and you and I would never have met. First and foremost, you are my enemy because I made you so."

_I am what you made me_.

I snarled and wanted to fly into rage, except my injuries kept me rooted down. All I was left to do was to feel the anger swirling inside me, and staring at him from burning emerald eyes. Dumbledore, Voldemort, the world … all staking their claim on me, all telling me what and who I was. Voldemort wanted an enemy, Dumbledore a saviour, the world a hero.

_No. I was nothing of all that, and at the same time more. Much, much more._

"Yet as I did so, I now have to finish what I started. My plans have been delayed enough, more than enough."

_No!_

It was enough. I had been shaped for far too long. Now I was the one to do the shaping, and fuck the consequences. I would not die for the sins of the world. Let it burn, then; I would to carve out my own destiny, with the blood and bones of everyone who stood in my way, follow only myself and let the world suffer for it.

_Time to reap what you sowed. And would that it were different, but it's too late, too late … For they have planted the wind, and shall harvest a storm._

– – – – – – – – –

The wand rose again.

I leant back against the brown, charred earth, staring up into the sky full of twinkling stars, beautiful, uncaring and cold.

_And people believed their destiny to be written there. _And perhaps it even was so, because destiny cared not for any one human's plights, not the wife, who had her beloved torn away, not the young family that was destroyed in a single night, and not the bright-eyed child, who was cruelly burdened with the task to vanquish all evil, be a saviour, and have no salvation granted himself.

The words left my mouth effortless, and I felt not a twinge of guilt.

"_The one with the power to vanquish the Dark Lord approaches … Born to those who have thrice defied him, born as the seventh month dies._"

I chanced a look at him, at Voldemort, who paused again. He wasn't as certain as he'd like to have me think. _No, no, never certain. Too heavy the weight of some words spoken in ill-fated night, half of which you heard and made come true by your own acts … so certainly, the next part must be coming true also?_

"You knew that part. Voldemort."

His red eyes stared at me, transfixed.

"But you never knew the second half, did you? _And the Dark Lord will mark him as his equal, but he will have power the Dark Lord knows not…_"

The wand faltered.

"Power? What kind of power?"

I ignored him.

"_And either must die at the hand of the other for neither can live while the other survives …_"

My voice was only a whisper.

"Yes, Voldemort. It means what you think it does. So long as I do not kill you, no one can. If only I stopped trying, you were invincible. But you believe in the prophecy no longer, you said. A pity …"

The wind whispered in the trees that stood in the gardens surrounding Number 4, whispered to me. They told me I was on the right path, I knew; I felt it, as surely I felt the lazy throb of all my various injuries. It was in the sighing wind and the twinkling stars … and perhaps it was only in my mind, after all.

What was guiding me? A question I could not answer. Did I truly believe in what I said? It did not matter.

I guessed I knew Voldemort better than anyone. Linked by death, by blood and magic, bound more tightly than family and kinship, dealing with him had become instinctive. Somehow, somewhere down the line, I had started to listen to these subtle feelings and learned to trust them. And I was certain I knew the right words now.

He abruptly turned away, cloak swishing in the night. _Doubt._

He would not dare attack me now, not unless he had pondered the words of the prophecy, and what kind of power it might mean. I had that advantage over him. Pity that I didn't know what that power was either.

The black figure stood unmoving in the night. Silence, only the two of us. Bella had wandered off some time ago.

"Why have you come, Voldemort?"

And that was the heart of the matter, wasn't it? An easy question, yet the answer suddenly so complicated, far less obvious than one would think. United by fate, our paths entwined, to ultimately lead us here, tonight, and what I had planned would finally cut that knot, and at the same time link us tightly all the more.

The wind stirred in the trees. _Restlessness._

"You are not my enemy, Voldemort."

Slowly, he turned around. If he was surprised, he didn't show it.

"I notice your choice of words, Harry. But does my answer even matter? The prophecy you just told me would have me believe otherwise."

Thunder rumbled low, distantly. _Anger._

The prophecy … the words of a crazy bat who couldn't keep her mouth shut when it mattered. Four sentences and a life was planned away, just like that. And who ever did ask me? Who ever fucking did? Screw all crazy seers, too old headmasters and blind Dark Lords. Screw them all. Enough with plans, prophecies and expectations. _Enough!_

"Fuck the prophecy!" I snarled. "Why the fuck do you care? This is how you got into this mess in the first place! Have you learned nothing at all? It came true because _you made it_. You are just about to repeat that mistake, now, with your wand in hand, standing over me just like you did fifteen years ago.

"You say you see it now? You've understood nothing! For all your claims to be the greatest wizard ever, and your will to rule, you still allow yourself to be trapped by the ramblings of a half-crazy woman on a stormy night. You _are_ ruled, instead of ruling yourself, you accept something greater than you with no thoughts at all. What are you? A helpless Muggle?"

Voldemort had become very still. _The calm._

"You will cease speaking to me like this."

I laughed in his face. "You, you denied death when it came to claim you. You strove to master it all, show the superiority of magic, and yet now you obediently bow to something as simple as fate. You would kill me because the prophecy says it must be so, accept it as inevitable –"

"Silencio!" he shouted "You know nothing, boy! What magic means! What _power_ means. I have gone further than any one before me, pushed the boundaries of what was even _thought_ possible to the utmost shores and achieved things no one ever dreamed of! Do you not think I would not have considered this before? Lord Voldemort is not hold down by mere notions of what is possible –"

A sudden gale whipped across the lawn, cold, surprisingly cold for this time of the year. It churned the treetops and my hair, ripping apart the flames. _The storm._

And I found I could speak. The last piece falling into place.

"So prove it, then!" I snapped. "Prove to me that you are strong enough to master something as easy as your _own_ fate. Here, now, and we will swear that _neither_ will die at the hand of the other, and _both_ can live. This is your final chance to break the cycle and correct the mistake that began in that pub on a rainy night. 'Either must die at the hands …' No! We shake our hands. We walk away. We _live_, both of us. We are the most powerful wizards of our generations. If not us, then who?"

The whipping wind was so cold, and it cloaked me like the warmest blanket. It whistled around us, tearing at Voldemort's cloak. My voice rose.

"And the prophecy as a rule? For _us_? We long since gave up on complying with _anything_. Rules are only there to be broken. We swear not to kill each other, and _force_ the world to change its course, force our will onto the outcome that is set. We prove once and for all that nothing is greater than magic. _This_ will truly mark our power."

Green into red, we stared at each other, his face oddly twisted, a strange, hungry look upon it; suddenly reminiscent of another expression I had seen, three years ago, on a boy named Tom Riddle, then as old as I was now. The hints of that boy were still there, breaking through the surface now, for a single, timeless moment.

"So be it then," he hissed. "I am Lord Voldemort … and so we do swear –"

"Master!"

And for a third time, the voice shattered it.

Voldemort's head jerked around, staring at Bellatrix, then once again at me. Something cleared in his eyes and for a second a look of raw fury burned behind them.

"What –"

His hand snapped up, bidding Bellatrix to cease speaking and she fell silent. She scowled at me, having returned just then – only catching our final exchange, I wagered, but it had been enough to destroy all my chances.

_So close. So fucking close, before she disrupted us._

Another mark in chalk.

"Fix his legs, Bella."

Voldemort's voice betrayed nothing. It was smooth, almost pleasant. He stood still, with only the hem of his robes flapping in the wind, looking at me in what seemed like pure curiosity, no trace of the murderous rage that had occupied his features mere moments ago.

Only an idiot would find that reassuring. Somewhere inside, I felt black despair starting to crawl through me. Was everything lost?

_It couldn't be – it couldn't –_

Bellatrix jabbed her wand at me and something shifted in my broken leg. It hurt as hell and I was sure there was a reason Madam Pomfrey relied on potions and not only spells. I could move again, though. Somewhat.

I crawled out of the crater, while Voldemort regarded me pensively. For a long time, there was only silence.

"Clever child," he murmured finally. "You know me well by now. What I fear and desire … for you, it is all there."

I could all but see the reassessment taking place in his head. His voice turned hard, cold.

"You used it for your advantage, against me. You won't be able to repeat this feat, be assured."

And that I believed. He was looking at me with different eyes, something between us had shifted. I felt as though he regarded me as bigger a threat than he ever had before.

"Will you not kill him, Master?"

I stared at him, desperately trying not to feel fear – not so much of whatever he might do to me or a final killing curse, but for what it meant. _That I had lost. Failed. In my fight with Bellatrix._

He abruptly turned his head towards her, as if only then remembering that she was there, too, his look roaming over the rubble, lingering just for a moment on the remains of Vernon's body.

A strange smile curled his lips, giving his pale white features a cruel edge.

"We will see."

He conjured a second chair next to his own that had suddenly reappeared. It was quite a bit plainer than his Louis XVI-fauteuil.

"Sit down, Harry. No need to stand."

He lifted his hand invitingly, but it was more a command than a cordial suggestion. I wasn't fooled at all, and I don't think he expected me to. He still had a wand while I did not.

And yet, as I slowly took the offered seat, doubt and desperation turned into triumph. All my fears bled away, vanishing in the certainty of a near victory. _He would hear me out._ I knew I had him.

"So you would join me, as I once offered you?"

There was something furtive in his expression. I shook my head.

"I want simply to be left alone. I have enough of people and their attempts to use me for this or that. No, I would stay out of it all altogether. Just as I was not your enemy before you made me, this will not be my war unless you force me. I want nothing to do with it and the world. Keep it; it is yours for the taking."

He could sense if I lied, I was sure; just as I was almost certain I would be able to if he did. We were too closely linked to deceive each other anymore after he possessing me at the Ministry; any attempts of a lie just as possible as it was to lie to yourself, not more and not less. It made things a little more easy, now.

"Neutrality?"

He looked at me and for a moment sounded almost regretful.

"That isn't for wizards like us, Harry. It is a luxury we are not granted in times such as these, for we are powerful, too powerful to remain neutral. People will always seek us, as they are weak, and the weak cling to the powerful. You would always be hunted, sought after, for as long as there was someone left to fight. If not me, then Dumbledore and his order. If not him, then the Ministry."

Voldemort laughed. It was a sound void of any mirth.

"You see now? It seems rather ironic that I would well be the party to grant you the most leniency. Once they truly see what you are, they will start to fear you. And what they fear, they will either seek to control or destroy. Look around you. It has already begun."

Sentences in ambiguity. Would they forgive what I had done, here, today, if they ever knew? Would they forgive what I was about to do?

But it wasn't hard to let those thoughts pass by. I didn't care.

"They will have to learn to accept it, Voldemort."

"You are deluding yourself if you think everyone else but me would accept it just like that and let you simply walk away. Either you are one of them, or part of the enemy. Those who enjoy claiming the moral high ground are in truth more radical than me in their views. For them, there are only absolutes."

He paused and studied me.

"Even if I agree now, you will have to decide where you stand eventually, because no one will accept anything else. They will force the decision upon you, sooner or later. There is no third way in this war, now. For you, there never was."

I looked at him coldly.

"Let that be my concern, Voldemort. I will destroy anyone that dares to try."

"Then you would destroy the world, until nothing and no one is left."

I looked at him in silence, my green eyes meeting his red.

Finally, he shook his head in quiet laughter.

"And people call _me_ insane, child."

He rose abruptly.

"Very well. The future will bring what it brings; perhaps we will fight eventually, and perhaps we will not. I shall grant you the respite you asked for, for now, as much as that is within my power – in return for you vow to not stand in my way, wherever that may be. It does fit with my plans, and I admit, I cannot wait to see their reactions once news of this becomes public. This little struggle for power has become quite a bit more interesting than I ever hoped."

I had a feeling he meant more than just our agreement. And although perhaps I should have been surprised that everything worked out as I intended, I only felt the satisfaction of a plan coming to fruition. Would he try go back on his word and screw me over? Well, of course. If he wanted me out of the way, he would find a way to try, but that was alright with me. I needed to live now.

And who the fuck cared what happened tomorrow, or to the rest of the world.

"Of course, there is the small problem of trust."

But for that, I had an answer ready. I hadn't wasted my last days in Hogwarts losing in wizards chess and playing exploding snap.

"An Unbreakable Vow."

Bellatrix glanced at me sharply. Suddenly, she seemed completely lucid. Her violet eyes seemed to look right through me.

"An Unbreakable Vow, Potter? Do you know the consequences of invoking that magic?"

"He does, or he would not have suggested it."

Suddenly, Voldemort seemed in a hurry. He glanced into the sky and over to the edge of the property, where no Muggles at all were gathering to watch the devastation and the slowly dying fire. Had to be a Muggle repelling charm to keep everyone from noticing. Most likely Voldemort had cast it.

"Bella, you will be our Bonder," he commanded. "We need to be quick. Dumbledore and his Order will be here soon enough. Did you find what you were looking for?"

"Yes, my Lord, everything is ready. I need but another few minutes to carry out the ritual."

He gave a short nod with his head.

"Good. Now, Harry, your hand, if you would …"

And between ashes and fire, my old world burning, under a new-moon sky that was slowly obscured by gathering wisps of black clouds, I slowly extended my arm, and my hand closed around Voldemort's; they who were supposed to be sworn enemies locked in a handshake that would see the world fall. The air prickled on my skin, herald of the arriving storm, soon to break loose over 4, Privet Drive … over the magical world. And they should have seen it coming, they should; but they never did, because they all were blind, blind to their crimes, blind to the consequences.

In the end, Voldemort himself was only a consequence of their society and the war nothing but the manifestation of its state. The magical world was slowly devouring itself, and I refused to be a part that.

– – – – – – – – –

"Will you consent to not intentionally attack me in any way, and keep out of my way to the best your ability?"

The tip of Bellatrix's wand rested on our linked hands

"I will," I said.

A brilliant red flame from the wand snaked around our wrists, once, twice, sinking into the flesh, burning a little, but not too much, and I felt something settle deep inside me. Then it was my turn to ask.

"And will you agree to neither kill me nor order my death?"

His hand twitched a little, but it did not pull away.

"I will."

A second flame shot from the wand, twisted around the first, joining it, like a fine glowing chain, linking us together, strengthening the connection that was already there. My scar burned fiercely. I was bound.

And, finally, I was free.

– – – – – – – – –

The thunderstorm still rumbled in the distance. By now, the starry sky was almost completely obscured by the clouds. The air smelled like rain. The fire had died down.

I was staring at a perimeter that was spattered in dark stains, appearing black in the night. There was a small cauldron and oddly enough, Vernon's crowbar.

"Lumos!"

My wand, returned by Voldemort, flared in brilliant light, and from within its shine, she rose in the circle with a nearly sensual grace.

And I saw what kind of ritual she had been talking about.

She looked like Azkaban never happened. Gone where the last remnants of malnourishment and neglect, the slightly hollow and gaunt face, the thinning hair. In its place was the body of a woman who was gifted with a stunning beauty and took care of her appearance. My eyes tracked her movements. Everything she did. Every little gesture. I had been defeated, but it was only for now. I would return to her. And it would be all mine.

Around her, the earth was drenched in red. Her lips were stained crimson, and the colour resembled nothing so much like blood.

A quiet chuckle sounded to my right.

Voldemort. How unimportant.

I soaked up her appearance, and saw what made her one of the most entrancing beauties of her time. She looked much like a dark mirror of Narcissa. I remembered the short meeting at the World Cup two years ago; you could see the likeness. She looked once more tall and aristocratic in her posture, with an oval-shaped face and perfectly chiselled features; just like her sister. Her pale skin and red mouth stood in a delicious contrast to the luscious waves of midnight black hair that framed her face and ran down her back.

The only thing that remained was the glittering insanity that lurked just beneath the surface of her unique violet eyes like a feral beast. But she had been mad before she went to Azkaban, I knew.

All in all, she looked a little bit older than I remembered from Dumbledore's Pensieve, but certainly no less attractive. Added to that was a fact the Pensieve-memory hadn't or couldn't convey – each step seemed ooze the feeling of _danger_.

A worthy opponent, indeed.

She took a few steps, twirling her wand lazily; apparently satisfied with the outcome of her potion.

"Oh yes," she purred. "That is so much better indeed." Her violet eyes focussed on me. "I thank you very much for your gift, not-so-little-Harry."

I frowned at her, until I spotted the shell of Petunia's body next to her, ribcage crudely torn open with a tool of some kind, leaving behind a bloody mess of broken bones and chunks of flesh.

"You didn't ask me if you could have her," I said.

She scowled at me.

"Didn't I? Oh well. It's not like you had any need for a half-dead Muggle. I almost feared it was too dead to be useful, but the heart was still beating, so I could use it in my potion."

So there was the catch. Admittedly, I did wonder why not all witches and wizards used something like this to achieve eternal youth. I critically eyed the body of my aunt. Shrivelled, wrinkled, a missing heart. Oh, and she was dead, of course. Yes, I could see where that might be a problem for, say, McGonagall, if she was trying to become less wrinkly.

Well, no loss no harm, and Bellatrix looked better for it. So Petunia had been useful for once in her life.

"You're quite welcome," I told her. "Do I get a favour in return?"

Her lips curved into a small, wicked grin.

"Oh, I like the sound of this. What would you … want?"

Her tone suggested everything and nothing. She moved a little closer, and I tore myself away from her gaze.

"I'm sure I can think of something … until we meet again."

It was a promise. I would find her. And then kill her.

"I will offer you something," Voldemort said. It sounded too casual. I narrowed my eyes. He only smiled.

"I'm feeling generous tonight. Aside from yourself, you may pick one person and their closest family you wish to not be attacked either. I then will swear no harm will befall them from my side."

I looked at him strangely until I finally realised. The razor-thin smile showed me what I already knew.

One person, one family, and two best friends.

"And in return, just as I promise reprieve to one, I promise deadly retribution to anyone else following Dumbledore and standing in my way."

Two best friends, and both forwardmost in the war. I felt a surge of anger.

"You bastard!" I hissed

A small chuckle escape him, but his eyes shone in cruel glee, promising to carry out exactly what he said. _How do you choose between your two best friends, in the certain knowledge that the one you didn't pick would eventually die?_ That wasn't a favour, it was a punishment. I knew that, and he knew that I knew.

"As I said, you know me well."

And the stare met me from cold eyes, powerful and without mercy.

"Never forget that everything between us works both ways."

I clenched my wand, suddenly wanting to strike him down where he stood, cut off his head and arms and legs, and was barred from that. For the shortest of moments, I felt the magic hum inside of me as in warning. I had _sworn _… and almost regretted.

"So which one will it be? The Muggleborn and her family, or the Weasley clan?"

How do you choose one best friend over the other? Stupid, loyal, Ron, first friend ever, and despite his many shortcomings, in the end the least of those that sought to shape me. Hermione, smart, kind, and yet sometimes so blind to realise what was right in front of her, always in danger of not seeing what was, but fitting her view and the people around to what she thought she knew. Memories of five years rushed through me, and I was utterly torn.

And while I stared at the dark lawn and the bushes lining the fence, mere shadows in the night, remembering the day, the answer came to me in a stroke of brilliance.

_Isn't it strange how sometimes we see things more clearly when the night is at its darkest?_

How do you choose?

_You don't._

"Neither," I said. "I could never pick one over the other, and you can't make me. I'll choose Tonks instead, and her family."

Voldemort stared at me, perplexed.

_Didn't count on that one, did you?_

I felt actually proud of myself for thinking of it. It was a fair decision for both of them. Ingenious.

Then he shrugged.

"It's your choice. The Tonks' it will be. I'm sure, Narcissa and Bellatrix will be most thankful."

Quite in contrary to his statement, Bellatrix looked like someone just taken away her favourite toy.

Oh, this made it all the better. I smirked at her and she glared back.

"But –"

One sharp glance and she fell silent. I frowned at her. Her obedience to Voldemort annoyed me, for some reason. She shouldn't be so demure. But with a final twist, she was gone, Disapparated, leaving me alone with Voldemort, before I could think on that some more.

I considered him for a second.

"What have you planned now, Voldemort?"

A thin smile.

"I like a good surprise, I think. Don't linger here for too long, Harry. The wards protecting you and keeping harm out do no longer exist. Once I've left, you'll be on your own."

And then he was gone too, and I was alone.

– – – – – – – – –

I sprawled on the dewy lawn, lying on my back, feeling weary and exhausted. The adrenaline that had surged through my body, keeping me from noticing all my injures had faded. I hurt all over.

I was waiting for Dumbledore to arrive. I wondered why Voldemort hadn't feared meeting him. He had seemed quite certain that the Order wouldn't arrive while he was here. He wouldn't take any chances if he could help it. He wouldn't have stayed if he hadn't been certain. I wondered how he knew.

Another spy in the order? Well, it wasn't my concern, not anymore.

Not caring felt great.

There was only one traitor I had a score to settle with, and he wasn't of any consequence for the Order, having been discovered. Kreacher had played a pivotal role in Sirius' death, and for that, he would die.

I stared into the sky. Shreds of black clouds shot past overhead, driven by the storm, covering this star and that.

_Sirius_.

A family given names of constellations, and I searched for one of the brightest stars in the night sky. I stared at the blinking dot, so very far away, until it seemed to grow bigger and brighter, and suddenly fell out of the sky –

I blinked and it was obviously no star but something else. The small dot grew in size rapidly, until I made out the shape of a large Horned Owl. In its talons, it carried a small package. Seconds later, it had reached me; it screeched once, sounding annoyed, and dropped off the parcel, already taking flight again with a another disgruntled hoot.

I knelt on the ground, inspecting the box. It was wooden, a dark kind of wood, perhaps cherry, and embellished with a crest on the lid. I recognised the crest at once, despite having seen it only once before.

_Sable, a chevron between two mullets in chief and a sword in base, argent._

It was on an old tapestry in a drawing room of a rundown townhouse, depicting a family tree of a line that was almost dead. My mind flashed back to a day almost a year ago. _I am the last of Blacks, Harry._

How could he send me something? Had he arranged for it? Why now?

Hoping for some kind of explanation, I opened the box, and was disappointed. The only thing inside, resting on a cushion of black velvet, was a ring. It certainly was a beautiful ring, exquisite craftsmanship the likes of which was hardly found today anymore. It looked old, but still shining and unblemished, undoubtedly imbued with spells that kept the metal from tarnishing. Black and silver were the dominating colours, the centre made up by a single, oval-shaped black stone, cut and polished translucent. Was there something as a black diamond?

Besides the setting, silver was in fine lines interwoven in the stone, forming the family crest, very thin silver strands that possibly made it a signet ring. Small white opals framed the centre stone, and silver was braided in-between. Inscribed on the inside of the ring were runes I had no clue of.

I turned it between my fingers, slowly, back and forth and back once more. The metal was cool to the touch. It looked perfectly harmless, and yet I knew it was more than a simple ring. I opened my fingers and the ring dropped to the ground, rolling a few inches and finally coming to rest at my feet.

I stared down. I shouldn't even be in possession of this ring. It should be Sirius wearing it, but he could not, not anymore, denied the position that was rightfully his.

I had suspected he would leave me his stuff. I had no idea what it all entailed, but clearly, the ring was part of it. He wanted me to have it … and yet, dared I picking up what became mine only due to the death of my godfather?

Even so, I felt this was about more than just accepting it as a gift. It was about accepting a heritage, becoming the last heir to a line that was thought to have died when the last scion was shipped to Azkaban.

Was I ready for that kind of change?

_Who are you?_ I whispered

The night was silent.

_There is always something more than what people see, isn't it?_

_I am … more._

The entirety of the last days flashed past me for a final time, the doubts, the realisation, culminating in a second chance granted because I gave up what until then had defined me, leading me to a final decision now.

_Harry Potter would not have made that choice._

Sirius was dead, and Harry Potter had died with him. It was time to let go. Sirius was the life I had been denied. He was the crossroads on which I had stood, and which I had passed, for good or ill. He was gone, now.

And here, in the dying embers of 4, Privet Drive, I finally laid him to rest.

I picked a place in the very centre of the home that I had destroyed because I could bear it no longer, a gauged hole in the earth, created by my wand. There had been no body to bury, no ceremony to hold, and I wouldn't have wanted any. It was just me and him, just like no one but me had understood how he felt, stuck in the place he hated.

It was fitting.

The earth fell, piling up on the wood of the box and soon it was hidden from view, the earth smooth, the hollow gone. I stared at the patch of earth. A last twinge of sadness for everything that could have been, and all that would not be, and then the sorrow was gone. It rested here, together with Sirius, between the ruins of 4, Privet Drive, within my world turned to grey ashes.

And from it rose my new life, forged with the heat of a world burning, a second chance, a rediscovering of everything I thought I knew. Was I ready?

Did I _care_ if I was?

Not really. _And which question does that answer?_ No looking back, only ahead. Harry Potter wouldn't have made the bargain. Perhaps it was time to leave another thing behind.

I smiled and finally, slowly but without hesitating, picked up the silver-shimmering ring, from between the ashes, and pushed it over my finger.

_Who are you?_ I whispered.

And the answer, suddenly simple, a single word to sum up all that I now felt.

_I am Black._

Black as the night, Black as Bellatrix and her blood.

And as a couple of rapid cracks sounded throughout the night, the ring flared in dark fire, a sudden burning raced through my body and then there was only darkness.

* * *

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